PLAYS 
FOR   SMALL   STAGES 

BY 

MARY  ALDIS 

Mrs.  Pat  and  the  Law — The  Drama  Class 

Extreme    Unction  —  The  Letter 

Temperament 


NEW    YORK 
DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 

J915 


A 


Copyright,  1915,  by  MARY  ALDIB 

All  RiytUa  Reserved 


F 


TO 

MY    BOYS 


NOTE 

The  author  desires  to  express  gratitude  for  assistance 
in  the  preparation  and  presentation  of  these  plays 
to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  Atkinson,  Mr.  Benjamin 
Carpenter,  Mr.  Arthur  Davison  Ficke,  Mr.  Hobart 
Chatneld-Taylor,  and  many  others  of  that  sympathetic 
group  of  players,  authors,  and  audiences  who  have 
together  made  The  Playhouse  possible. 


STHE  PLAY-HOUSE 

LAKE  FOREST,^  ILLINOIS 


CONTENTS 


PREFACE xiii 

MRS.  PAT  AND  THE  LAW 1 

THE  DRAMA  CLASS  OF  TANKAHA,  NEVADA 29 

EXTREME  UNCTION 47 

THE  LETTER 67 

TEMPERAMENT 85 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

HUGH:    MY  BELOVED! 


r  .      .      .  Frontispiece 

GLADYS:    Do  You  CALL  THAT  Music? f 

PAT:  WHAT  DID  THEY  Do  THEN?  WELL,  THEY 
LOOKED  AND  LOOKED  FER  A  YEAR  AN'  A  DAY, 
IVERY  MAN  o'  THIM  IN  A  DIFFERENT  COUNTHREE  Facing  p.  14 

MRS.  STEDMAN:  THERE  is  A  FAR  MORE  IMPORTANT 
REASON  FOR  BREVITY  THAN  CONSTRUCTION. 
EVEN  A  ONE-ACT  PLAY  MAY  BE  ONE  ACT  Too 
LONG  "  32 

THE  GIRL:  I'M  So  TIRED!  I'D  LIKE  SOMETHING  NICER        "        52 
TANNER:  You  FORGET  THAT  I  AM  A  NOVELIST   ...        "        80 


PREFACE 

No  one  can  deny  the  present  Dramatic  Renaissance.  Plays 
profitable  and  unprofitable,  popular  and  unpopular,  proper  and 
improper,  plays  priggish  and  plays  profane,  are  being  presented, 
read,  discussed,  revised,  written  about  and  quarrelled  over. 
The  Drama  is  furiously  to  the  fore  and,  in  spite  of  the  "Movies," 
continues  to  hold  the  absorbed  interest  of  an  increasing  number 
of  people. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  dramatic  stir,  this  unrest  of  expression, 
certain  ones,  weary  of  being  onlookers,  arise  and  announce, 
"We  too  will  act,"  and  others  cry  out,  "We  too  will  write." 
So  the  Amateur  providing  his  own  cue,  makes  his  entrance, 
and  after  being  regarded  a  bit  askance  by  "The  Profession"  is 
allowed  to  play  his  part. 

In  the  Spring  of  1911  I  cast  an  affectionate  and  calculating  eye 
upon  a  small  frame  house  next  door.  It  was  shortly  acquired; 
partitions  and  ceilings  were  pulled  out,  the  lean-to  kitchen  be 
came  the  stage;  dressing-rooms  were  added  and  a  miniature 
theatre  which  we  called  The  Playhouse  was  ready. 

In  the  five  Summers  since,  a  group  of  amateur  players  have 
presented  some  fifty  one-act  plays  to  the  great  pleasure  and 
interest  of  themselves  and  the  alternate,  sometimes  mingled, 
amusement,  surprise,  disapproval  and  horror  of  their  neighbors. 

Many  of  the  plays  given  were  written  by  the  players  them 
selves  or  adapted  from  short  stories.  Others  were  translated 


xiv  PREFACE 

from  the  French,  German  or  Italian.  All  were  experimental, 
undertaken  in  a  spirit  of  adventure  with  the  simple  motive  of 
amusing  the  players  and  their  friends.  The  five  plays  in  this 
book  were  written  for  production  at  "The  Playhouse."  They 
have  all  gained  in  rehearsal  by  suggestions  from  the  actors. 
In  the  comedies  much  is  left  to  the  interpretation  of  the  players. 
Often  amusing  lines  or  "business"  comes  to  a  player  from  the 
response  of  the  audience,  but  he  and  his  fellows  must  be  quick 
of  wit  that  such  improvisation  may  seem  entirely  natural. 

Amateurs  have  one  great  advantage,  they  give  a  play  only 
once  or  twice  and  so  attain  a  freshness  and  spontaneity  that  it 
would  take  years  of  technical  training  to  enable  them  to  keep  up 
through  a  long  run.  H.  T.  Parker,  commenting  in  The  Boston 
Transcript  upon  a  performance  of  the  "Lake  Forest  Players" 
on  a  dramatic  visit  to  the  Toy  Theatre  in  Boston  says: 

"  Time  and  again  amateurs  attain  simplicity  because  they  do  not 
suspect  intricacy,  and  truth  because  they  see  it  and  embody  it  in 
their  acting  with  no  veils  of  habit,  method  or  precedent.  Given 
histrionic  instinct,  aptitude  and  observation,  they  act  with  ease, 
freedom  and  variety,  and  with  full  self-surrender  to  their  parts. 
If  the  means  are  not  the  professional  means  they  do  their  office 
which  is  to  bring  the  personages  to  life  in  the  terms  of  the  play. 
Acting  for  themselves  and  in  their  own  way,  they  are  not  weighted 
with  self-consciousness,  tradition  or  imitative  effort." 

The  word  self-consciousness  is  the  key-note.  "Drop  self- 
consciousness  and  get  under  the  skin  of  the  character  you 
portray"  might  be  considered  the  theory  of  amateur  acting. 

Occasionally  efforts  have  been  made  at  The  Playhouse  to 
select  a  stage  director,  but  as  each  participant  takes  advice 
and  direction  in  inverse  ratio  to  the  firmness  with  which  he 
is  able  to  maintain  his  own  views  the  plan  has  not  proved 
effective.  Our  composite  results  are  obtained  by  a  process  of 


PREFACE  xv 

mutual  suggestion  and  recrimination,  and  if  these  simple  means 
fail  it  is  never  from  any  shyness  on  the  part  of  a  fellow-actor 
in  expressing  an  honest  opinion. 
There  are  two  rules  posted  in  the  Green  Room: 

KEEP  YOUR  TEMPER 

AND 

RETURN  YOUR  MANUSCRIPTS. 

The  second  is  imperative,  the  first  variable  in  application. 

In  selecting  plays  we  have  departed  radically  from  the  amateur 
tradition  of  resuscitating  "plays  with  a  punch,"  which  have 
fared  well  in  the  hands  of  professionals.  In  the  established 
"tricks  of  the  trade"  of  course  the  amateur  cannot  compete 
with  the  professional.  This  is  the  true  significance  of  the 
well-known  Green  Room  hoot  that  "The  worst  professional  is 
better  than  the  best  amateur." 

We  generally  try  to  give  our  audiences  something  they  have 
not  heard  before,  and  seek  plays  in  which  the  expressed  word, 
the  mental  attitude  and  the  interplay  of  character  are  of  more 
importance  than  the  physical  action.  Here,  if  anywhere, 
although  such  plays  may  seem  difficult,  lies  the  amateur's 
opportunity.  So  we  are  not  afraid  of  plays  with  little  action 
and  much  talk,  for  is  not  the  most  intense  drama  of  all,  the 
drama  of  the  soul,  the  struggle  between  mind  and  mind,  heart 
and  heart?  There  lies  all  the  pain,  the  joy,  the  perplexity  of 
life.  It  is  in  talk,  low  and  intense,  gay  and  railing,  bitter  and 
despairing,  as  the  case  may  be,  that  we  moderns  carry  on  our 
drama  of  life,  the  foundation  for  the  drama  of  the  stage. 

MARY  ALDIS. 

Lake  Forest,  Illinois. 
July,  1915. 


MRS.  PAT  AND  THE  LAW 


Played  for  the  first  time  on  September  14,  1913,  by  Mr. 
BENJAMIN  CARPENTER,  Mrs.  ARTHUR  ALDIS,  Miss  POLLY 
CHASE,  Miss  ISABEL  McBiRNEY,  and  Mr.  CHAS.  ATKINSON. 


MRS.   PAT  AND  THE  LAW. 

CHARACTERS: 

PATRICK  O'FLAHERTY. 

NORA  O'FLAHERTY,  his  wife. 

JIMMIE,  his  crippled  son,  aged  about  eight  or  ten  years. 

Miss  CARROLL,  the  Visiting  Nurse. 

JOHN  BING,  a  Policeman. 

SCENE:  A  small,  poor  room  in  a  tenement  flat.  Cook-stove,  back; 
shabby  lounge,  front;  at  left,  kitchen  table  with  a  faded  flower 
in  a  bottle;  a  wash-tub  on  bench,  centre  left,  back  near  door. 
At  left,  door  to  bedroom.  At  right,  door  to  hallway. 
When  the  curtain  rises  NORA  O'FLAHERTY  is  discovered  at  the 
wash-tub.  She  is  a  large  woman,  with  a  worn,  sweet  face, 
across  her  forehead  an  ugly  red  cut.  The  room  is  untidy,  and 
so  is  NORA.  The  stove  is  blazing  hot.  After  stirring  the 
clothes  in  the  boiler  NORA  wipes  her  face  with  the  back  of  her 
hand  and  sighs  wearily  as  she  puts  a  fresh  lot  into  the  tub 
of  suds. 

JIMMIE. 

[Speaking  from  bedroom.] 
Maw,  what  time  is  it? 

NORA. 
Most  tin,  Jimmie-boy. 


4  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

JlMMIE. 

Whin  '11  Miss  Carroll  come? 

NORA. 

Well,  now,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  she'd  be  comin1  along  the 
shtreet  and  oup  the  shtairs  and  right  in  at  that  door  about  the 
time  the  clock  gits  'round  to  half  past  tin,  or  maybe  it's  sooner 
she'll  be.  Do  you  think  it's  a  flower  she'll  be  bringin'  today, 
Jimmie-boy? 

JIMMIE. 
To-day's  Tuesday,  ain't  it? 

NORA. 
Shure! 

JIMMIE. 

9 

There's  no  tellin'.    Sometimes  she  says  there  ain't  enough 
to  go  'round. 
[A  pause.] 

NORA. 

[Sorting  out  clothes.] 

Sakes  alive— the  wash  that's  on  me!    I'll  niver  git  through. 
[A  short  silence.] 

JIMMIE. 
Maw,  what  time  is  it  now? 

NORA. 

Well,  I  couldn't  rightly  say,  the  steam  bein'  in  me  eyes  like. 
Faith,  ye  must  bear  in  mind  there's  many  that's  needin'  her. 


MRS.  PAT  AND  THE  LAW  5 

Maybe  at  this  very  minute  it's  a  new-born  baby  just  come  into 
the  world  she's  tendin',  or  an  ould  man  just  goin'  out  of  it! 
She'll  be  comin'  soon  now,  I'll  warrant  ye. 

JIMMIE. 

But,  Maw,  me  leg  hurts,  and  Paw  takes  all  the  room  in  the 
bed,  he's  sleepin'  so  noisy! 

NORA. 

Och,  Jimmie  darlin',  have  a  little  patience!  Me  name's  not 
Nora  O'Flaherty  if  Miss  Carroll  don't  bring  us  a  flower  this 
day,  or  if  there  ain't  enough  to  go  'round,  shure  it's  the  bright 
happy  worrd  or  the  little  joke  or  plan  she'll  have  in  her  mind 
for  ye  'ull  hearten  the  day  as  well  as  a  flower. 
[Another  pause.] 

JIMMIE. 
Maw!    Ain't  it  half  past  tin  yit? 

NORA. 

Oh,  laddie,  an'  I  hadn't  the  great  wash  on  me  hands  I'd  dance 
a  jig  t'  amuse  ye!  Shure  many's  the  song  I've  sung  an'  the 
jig  I've  danced  whin  I  was  a  slip  o'  a  gurrl  back  in  the  ould 
counthree,  afore  I  had  the  four  of  yiz  and  yer  Paw  to  look  afther! 
Now  it's  me  arrms  have  need  to  move  livelier  than  me  legs,  I'm 
thinkin'.  Listen,  now,  an'  I'll  see  if  I  can  call  to  mind  a  little 
song  for  ye.  [Sings,  keeping  time  with  the  wash-board.] 

There  was  a  lady  lived  at  Rhin, 
A  lady  very  stylish,  man — 


n 


6  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

But  she  snapped  her  fingers  at  all  her  kin 

And — she  fell  in  love  wid  an  Irishman. 

A  wild  tremenjous  Irishman, 

A  rampin',  stampin'  Irishman, 
A  devil-may-take-'em — Bad  as  you  make  'em — 

Fascinatin'  Irishman! 

Oh,  wan  o'  his  een  was  bottle  green 

And  the  tother  wan  was  out,  me  dear, 
An'  the  calves  o'  his  wicked  twinklin'  legs 

Were  two  feet  'round  about,  me  dear. 

Oh — the  slashin',  dashin'  Irishman — 

The  blatherin',  scatherin'  Irishman, 
A  whiskey,  frisky,  rummy,  gummy, 

Brandy,  dandy  Irishman! 

An'  that  was  the  lad  the  lady  loved 

Like  all  the  gurrls  o'  quality. 
He'd  smash  all  the  skulls  o'  the  men  o'  Rhin 

Just  by  the  way  o'  jollity. 

Oh,  the  ratlin',  battlin'  Irishman! 

The  thumpin',  bumpin'  Irishman, 
The  great  he-rogue,  wid  his  roarin'  brogue! 

The  laughin',  quaffin'  Irishman!* 

There's  a  song  fer  ye  now!    Ha,  Jimmie-boy,  I'm  thinkin' 
that  song  Vd  had  more  sense  an'  it  told  what  she  did  wid  her 
rampin',  roarin'  Irishman  wanst  she  got  married  to  him. 
[Knock  on  the  hall  door.] 

JIMMIE. 

Ah,  that's  her! 

NORA. 

There!     Didn't  I  tell  ye?     [NoRA  wipes  her  hands  and  hurries 
to  open  the  door,  admitting  Miss  CARROLL.]    Ah!    Miss  Carroll 
*  After  Wm.  McGinn. 


MRS.  PAT  AND  THE  LAW  7 

dear,  it's  welcome  ye  are  this  day.    Jimmie's  been  watchin' 

and  wearyin'  for  ye  since  the  daylight  dawned.    How  are  ye? 

[She  has  turned  away  as  Miss  CARROLL  enters  so  as  to  conceal 

her  head,  but  Miss    CARROLL  catches   sight   of  it  and, 

taking  hold  of  her  arm,  turns  her  around.] 

Miss  CARROLL. 

Why,  Mrs.  O'Flaherty,  what  an  awful  cut!  You  look  as  if 
you  had  been  hit  with  an  axe! 

NORA. 
Oh,  git  along  with  ye  I 

Miss  CARROLL. 
How  did  it  happen? 

NORA. 

Shure,  'twas  nothin'  at  all  but  his  boot,  and  he  that  unstiddy 
he  couldn't  aim  shtraight!  It's  'most  well  now.  [She  turns  to 
tub.] 

Miss  CARROLL. 

[Taking  off  her  coat  and  opening  her  satchel] 
It  isn't  '"most  well."  It's  a  fresh  wound  and  a  bad,  deep  cut. 
As  I've  told  you  before,  I've  no  patience  with  you  for  putting 
up  with  such  treatment.  Don't  you  know  the  law  would  pro 
tect  you?  You  ought  to  swear  out  a  warrant  for  your  husband's 
arrest  on  the  grounds  of  personal  violence.  That  might  teach 
him  a  lesson.  This  is  the  third  time  now  in  a  month  he's  struck 
you.  It's  outrageous!  Has  he  got  a  job  yet? 


8  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

JlMMIE. 

Ain't  you  comin',  Miss  Carroll?    Me  leg  hurts  awful. 

Miss  CARROLL. 

Yes,  Jimmie-boy,  in  a  minute.  [She  has  been  getting  hot  water 
from  the  stove,  preparing  cotton  gauze,  etc.,  for  dressing.  She 
stops  a  moment  in  her  work  and  regards  MRS.  0 'FLAHERTY.] 
Has  he  got  a  job  yet? 

NORA. 
He  had  work  last  week. 

Miss  CARROLL. 
For  how  long? 

NORA. 
For  three  days — an'  a  part  o'  four. 

Miss  CARROLL. 

And  then  he  got  drunk  and  got  turned  off,  eh?  And  you  gave 
him  your  wash  money,  too,  I  suppose,  as  usual. 

NORA. 

No,  no,  Miss  Carroll  dear,  I  didn't  do  that  at  all.  I  only  give 
him  the  half  of  it,  and  niver  any  of  it  would  he  have  had  but — 
well — knowin'  it  was  in  the  house,  it  was  coaxin'  me  mornin' 
and  night  he  was  with  that  wheedlin',  soft  way  o'  him,  and  the 
silly  loverin'  talk  till  the  heart  just  ran  melty  within  me.  [Miss 


MRS.  PAT  AND  THE  LAW  9 

CARROLL  regards  her  with  her  lips  pursed.]  I  know  it's  an  ould 
fool  you're  thinkin'  me,  but  jest  let  you  be  listenin'  to  his  talk 
wanst  and  see  what  you'd  do,  and  him  tellin'  stories  to  Jimmie 
the  while  so  kind  and  lovely. 

Miss  CARROLL. 

[Stopping  at  entrance  to  bedroom,  basin  in  hand.] 
"Kind  and  lovely"  indeed!  When  he  takes  your  wages  and 
hurts  and  abuses  you,  and  Jimmie  hasn't  a  decent  place  to  live 
in  because  his  father's  a  lazy —  [She  stops  in  amazement  on  the 
threshold  as  she  sees  PAT  asleep  in  the  room  within.]  Well,  I 
never!  [Comes  back  into  the  room.}  Mrs.  O'Flaherty,  you 
must  make  Pat  get  up  and  get  out  of  there  while  I  take  care  of 
Jimmie. 

[MRS.  O'FLAHERTY  looks  injured,  but  wipes  her  hands  and 
does  as  she  is  bid.  Miss  CARROLL  stands  watching  at  the 
door.] 

NORA. 

[Within  bedroom.] 

Pat!  Pat!  Wake  up,  will  ye!  [PAT  groans.]  My,  but 
you're  sleepin'  hard!  Pat!  Miss  Carroll  says  ye're  to  git  oup 
and  git  out  o'  here  while  she  takes  care  o'  Jimmie.  Come 
along,  now!  That's  right,  Jimmie-boy,  give  him  a  good  thump! 
Are  ye  oup  on  yer  legs  now?  Mind  what  yer  doin'.  There  ye 
are! 

PAT. 

./  [Entering,  yawning.] 

Wha'  for  Miss  Carroll  says  git  oup  and  git  out? 

[Miss  CARROLL  glares  at  PAT.  PAT,  turning,  catches  her 
eye  and  smiles  sweetly  ere  she  vanishes  into  the  bedroom.] 


10  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

NOKA. 

Well,  Pat  O'Flaherty,  I'm  thinkin'  Miss  Carroll  ain't  so  awful 
admirin'  o'  your  ways!  Sometimes  I'm  thinkin'  she  sees  'em 
clearer  nor  your  lovin'  wife  does! 

[PAT  picks  up  one  of  his  shoes,  sits  down  on  the  sofa  and 
looks  around  for  the  other;  pays  no  heed  to  NORA'S  talk.] 

PAT. 

Where's  me  other  shoe?  [Gets  down  on  hands  and  knees  and 
looks  under  the  sofa.]  Shure  I  had  the  two  of  'em  on  me  feet 
yesterday.  [Laughs  gaily.]  Maybe  I  wore  wan  on  'em  out 
lookin'  for  that  job  that  I  didn't  git! 

[NoRA  watches  him  a  moment,  then  hands  him  the  shoe  she 
has  picked  up  near  the  stove.] 

NORA. 
Here's  your  shoe. 

PAT. 

Ah!  That's  the  darlin';  thank  ye  kindly.  I'd  be  losin'  me 
head  some  day  if  'twern't  for  you,  Nora  gurrl. 

NORA. 

[At  tub  while  PAT  slowly  puts  on  shoes.] 

Oh,  Pat,  ye  will  thry  and  git  some  worrk  today,  won't  ye, 
man?  Thry  harrd.  If  they  don't  take  ye  on  at  the  first  place, 
go  on  an'  don't  git  discouraged.  Ye  know  ye're  the  grand 
workman  whin  ye  thry,  and  ye  must  git  a  stiddy  job  soon.  Ye 
really  must,  Pat.  I'm  shtrong;  I  don't  mind  the  washin'  fer 


MRS.  PAT  AND  THE  LAW  11 

me  own  sake.  I'd  do  anythin'  fer  you  and  the  childer,  but  whin 
Jimmie  frets  at  me  to  play  with  him,  an'  the  others  come  rushin' 
in  from  school  a-wantin'  thur  maw  to  do  this  and  that  fer  'em, 
shure  it  comes  harrd  an'  I  dassn't  take  me  arrms  from  the 
suds  to  'tend  on  'em  and  comfort  'em  and  cook  'em  thur  meals 
nice  like  that  visitin'  housekeepin'  lady  told  me  to. 

[PAT  has  not  been  listening  very  attentively,  but  has  taken 
in  the  drift  of  NORA'S  plea.] 

PAT. 

[Pulling  himself  together  and  putting  on  hat  and  coat.] 
Ah,  Nora  gurrl,  I'll  be  gettin'  a  good  job  today  shure.     [Sud 
denly  catches  sight  of  her  forehead.]    Wha's  that  on  your  head? 

NORA. 

[Startled.] 

Me  head,  is  it?  Miss  Carroll  was  sayin'  just  now  it  was 
"personal  violence  and  breakin'  the  law."  I  was  thinkin'  afore 
that  'twas  only  the  heel  o'  an  ould  boot  walked  around  daytimes 
on  Pat  O'Flaherty,  lookin'  for  a  job. 

[PAT  regards  her  uneasily,  meditating  speech,  but  appre 
ciates  he  is  too  befuddled  for  argument,  so  begins  to  whistle 
as  he  gets  himself(out  and  down-ateArafleavinn  the  door 
open.  NORA  goes  to  shut  it,  and  stands  a  moment  reflecting, 
looking  after  PAT,  then  returns  to  the  tub  near  the  bedroom 
door,  evidently  thinking.  Short  pause.] 

JIMMIE. 

[Within  bedroom.] 
Say,  Miss  Carroll,  d'ye  think  I'll  ever  git  it? 


12  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

Miss  CARROLL. 
Christmas  is  coming,  Jimmie-boy. 

JIMMIE. 
Huh!    So's  Fourth  o'  July. 

Miss  CARROLL. 
We'll  see  what  we  can  do. 

JIMMIE. 

The  other  lady  you  told  about  me  brung  me  a  suit,  but  some 
cove  lots  bigger  'n  me  wore  it  all  out  first.  I  don'  like  it.  Gee! 
but  I  wisht  I  had  a  bran'-new  suit  just  wanst. 

[NoRA  makes  a  little  yearning  gesture  towards  the  room.] 

Miss  CARROLL. 

Now,  Jimmie-boy,  come  along.  It  won't  hurt  much.  When 
you're  all  fixed  up  on  the  lounge  in  there  I've  got  something 
pretty  for  you. 

JIMMIE. 
Another  flower?    What  kind  is  it? 

Miss  CARROLL. 

We'll  see.    Now  lean  on  me. 
[They  enter.] 

NORA. 

That's  the  lad.  Are  ye  all  fixed  up  now?  He's  gettin'  lots 
better,  ain't  he,  Miss  Carroll? 


MRS.  PAT  AND  THE  LAW  13 

[JIMMIE  is  a  pale,  emaciated  child  with  a  wan  little  face  of 
great  sweetness  of  expression.  His  clothes  are  much  too 
large  for  him.  He  holds  up  one  bandaged  leg  and  hobbles  on 
crutches.  Miss  CARROLL  helps  him  onto  the  lounge,  pro 
duces  from  a  paper  by  her  satchel  two  pink  roses,  holding 
them  up.] 

JIMMIE. 
Gee!  ain't  they  pretty!    Can  I  keep  'em  both? 

Miss  CARROLL. 

Both  for  you,  Jimmie-boy,  and  we'll  see  what  can  be  done 
about  the  suit.  Perhaps  we  can  find  one  somewhere  that's 
bran'  new.  [She  gets  a  book  from  the  shelf.]  See  if  you  can  learn 
all  the  new  words  on  this  page  before  I  come  tomorrow,  will 
you?  That's  a  dear  old  boy!  Now,  Mrs.  O'Flaherty,  let's 
see  about  that  forehead.  Sit  down  here.  [Miss  CARROLL 
places  a  chair,  front  stage.] 

NORA. 
[Washing.] 

Oh,  what's  the  use  botherin'  about  me  head?  It  '11  git  well 
of  itself.  It  always  does.  Don't  be  mindin'  me. 

Miss  CARROLL. 

But,  Mrs.  O'Flaherty,  you  really  must  let  me  see  to  it.  It's  a 
bad  cut. 

NORA. 

[Wiping  her  hands.] 

Oh  well,  you're  so  good  to  Jimmie  I'll  have  to  oblige  you.  I 
suppose  you  haven't  had  many  persons  with  holes  in  their  heads 


14  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

made  by  boots  to  tind  to?  But  you're  young,  Miss  Carroll  dear, 
you're  young  yit.  [She  seats  herself  with  a  sigh.]  I'm  talkin' 
silly,  Miss  Carroll,  but  there's  no  room  for  a  joke  in  me  heart 
this  day.  I've  been  thinkin' — about  what  you  said  afore  you 
wint  in  to  Jimmie. 

Miss  CARROLL. 

[Binding  up  the  injured  head.] 
Yes? 

NORA. 

You  were  tellin'  me  to  git  out  a  warrant  'gainst  Pat.  Do  you 
think  it  would  keep  him  from  drinkin'  just  for  a  bit  till  we  git 
caught  up  on  the  rint  and  the  furniture?  Do  you  think  it  would? 

Miss  CARROLL. 

Mrs.  O'Flaherty,  you  know  it's  a  shame  and  an  outrage  the 
way  Pat's  behaving.  He's  wearing  you  out.  He'll  do  you  harm 
some  day  and  then  what  will  become  of  Jimmie?  He  ought 
to  be  taught  a  good  lesson. 

NORA. 

Would  they  do  any  hurt  to  him,  do  you  think,  an'  they 
locked  him  up?  Would  they  care  for  him  kindly,  and  he  maybe 
helpless  like? 

Miss  CARROLL. 

They  certainly  would  care  for  him.  Now,  Mrs.  O'Flaherty, 
you  go  over  to  the  Maxwell  Street  Station  and  show  them  your 
forehead,  and  say  you  want  Pat  "took  up"  for  a  day  or  so  just 
for  a  lesson,  do  you  understand? 


MRS.  PAT  AND  THE  LAW  15 

NORA. 

Yes,  I  understand.  Oh,  it  seems  an  awful  thing  to  be  doin' 
to  your  own  man,  don't  it?  After  all  them  things  I  said  when 
we  got  married?  No,  no,  I  niver  could  do  it,  niver!  [Goes 
back  to  tub.] 

Miss  CARROLL. 

Well,  then,  tell  Pat  you  may  do  it,  anyway.  It  will  make  him 
respect  you.  But  you're  such  a  softy,  of  course  you'll  do 
nothing.  I  must  go  now.  Mrs.  Flaherty,  you  must  not  let 
Pat  sleep  with  Jimmie.  It  is  not  good  for  him. 

NORA. 

[While  Miss  CARROLL  is  packing  satchel  and  getting  on  bonnet 

and  coat.] 

Shure  now,  Miss  Carroll,  you're  down  on  Pat  for  every  thin'. 
He's  a  good,  lovin'  paw  to  Jimmie-boy  he  is — makin'  him  happy 
and  pleasin'  him  like  nobody  else  can.  Everybody's  kind  to 
Jimmie  and  nobody's  kind  to  Pat — and  they're  just  alike — 
two  childer  they  are — both  on  'em  foolish  and  lovin'  and  helpless 
like,  and  I  love  'em  both.  Oh,  I  love  Jem!  If  you'd  hear  'em 
together  an'  you  wid  your  eyes  shut,  it's  hard  set  you'd  be  to  say 
which  was  the  man  and  which  was  the  child.  Sometimes 
I  can't  'tind  to  me  washin'  fer  listenin'  to  the  funny  talk  o' 
the  two  o'  them.  Wan  time  they'll  be  settin'  on  the  high  moon 
for  a  throne,  with  the  little  shtars  to  wait  on  'em  and  shootin'- 
shtars  to  run  errands;  another,  they'll  be  swimmin'  along 
through  the  deep  green  sea,  a-passin'  the  time  o'  day  an'  makin' 
little  jokes  to  the  fishes.  Ah,  ye  ought  to  hear  'em  go  on! 


16  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

Miss  CARROLL. 

Well,  I'm  glad  he  amuses  Jimmie  when  he's  at  home,  but  he 
ought  to  be  at  work,  a  great  strong  man  like  him!  He  needs 
a  good  lesson,  Pat  does.  Good-bye,  Jimmie-boy.  Be  sure 
and  have  the  new  words  learned.  [She  gives  him  a  little  pat, 
and  with  a  wave  of  the  hand  goes  out.  NORA  is  unheeding  JIM- 
MIE'S  call  of  "Maw."  JIMMIE  has  not  listened  to  the  conversa 
tion  between  NORA  and  Miss  CARROLL.] 

JIMMIE. 

[Raising  himself  and  looking  around.] 

Maw!  She  said  she'd  try  and  git  me  a  bran'-new  suit.  Say, 
Maw,  d'ye  think  she'll  pay  out  her  money  fer  it?  I  don't  want 
her  to  do  that.  She  just  gets  wages  same  as  Paw.  She  told 
me  how  it  was.  Say,  Maw,  why  don't  Paw  bring  home  no  more 


NORA. 

[Coming  to  him,  then  taking  sudden  decision.] 
Jimmie-boy,  Maw's  goin'  out.  [Hastily  gets  out  a  very  queer 
bonnet  and  mantle  while  she  speaks  and  arrays  herself,  putting 
bonnet  on  crooked  to  partially  conceal  bandage.]  You  just  lie 
quiet  there  like  a  good  boy,  an'  a  lamb's  tail  couldn't  whisk 
itself  three  times  till  I'll  be  back  again.  I'm  not  goin'  to  be  a 
fool  softy  no  longer,  and  Paw'll  bring  home  some  more  wages 
afther  that  lesson  he's  needin'.  Are  ye  all  right  now?  Ye 
won't  be  needin'  anything?  [Pats  him  on  the  head,  then  leans 
over  and  kisses  him  fiercely,  protectingly.] 

JIMMIE. 
Where  you  goin'? 


MRS.  PAT  AND  THE  LAW  17 

NORA. 

I'm  goin'  to  git  the  law  to  help  us  if  it  can.    [She  goes  out  and 
bangs  the  door.] 

[JiMMiE,  left  alone,  is  very  bored  and  listless.  He  turns  over 
the  book,  then  lets  it  fall,  twists  himself  wearily.  Sud 
denly  his  whole  face  brightens  happily  at  a  step  outside. 
PAT'S  gay  whistle  is  heard  coming  up-stairs.] 


PAT. 

[Entering.] 

Hi,  Jimmie-boy!  There's  the  great  lad  for  ye!  All  shtuffed 
full  and  a-runnin'  over  he  is  wid  fine  learnin*  out  of  books.  Did 
ye  ever  see  the  loike  o'  him?  Sittin'  up  dressed  like  folks! 
Faith,  it's  the  proud  Pat  I  am  this  day!  Let's  see  what  great 
thing  about  the  wide  worrld  is  a-hidin'  itself  inside  o'  this  yere. 
[Picks  up  book.] 

JIMMIE. 
I'm  tired  o*  that.    Tell  me  a  story. 

PAT. 

A  shtory,  is  it?  An7  me  to  be  sittin'  here  tellin'  a  young  lad 
shtories  at  the  high  noon  of  the  day,  and  the  job  takin'  itself 
wings  to  fly  off,  I  might  be  catchin'  and  holdin'  down  and  I  to  go 
afther  it  instid!  [Sitting  down  by  JIMMIE.]  Where's  your  Maw? 

JIMMIE. 

I  dunno.  She  said  she  wasn't  going  to  be  no  fool  softy  no 
more,  and  then  she  went  out  quick  like.  What's  a  fool  softy? 


18  PLAYS   FOR   SMALL  STAGES 

[PAT  is  very  uneasy.    He  does  not  answer,  then  goes  to  the 
door,  looks  out,  comes  back  slowly.] 

JIMMIE. 
Paw,  me  leg  hurts  awful  today.    Tell  me  a  story. 

PAT. 

All  right,  lad,  I'll  tell  ye  a  story.  [Sits  down  near  sofa.]  Did 
I  ever  tell  you  about  the  king  of  Ireland  and  his  siven  sons? 
No?  Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  great,  high-up,  noble  king 
reigned  over  Ireland  with  a  golden  crown  on  his  noble  head  an'  a 
rulin'  shtick  in  his  hand —  Whin  '11  your  Maw  be  back? 

JIMMIE. 
I  dunno.    Go  on  with  the  story. 

PAT. 

Well,  this  grand  king  had  siven  sons,  all  fair  and  beautiful 
they  were  in  armour  of  silver  and  shteel,  an'  on  their  heads 
helmets  covered  with  precious  stones  dug  up  out  o'  the  earth 
that  would  make  your  eyes  blink  for  the  shinin'.  Bye-and-bye 
the  siven  lads  grew  up  strong  and  mighty,  and  whin  the  king 
saw  that  they  were  gettin'  to  man's  eshtate  he  got  him  together 
all  of  the  workmen  out  of  a  job  there  were  in  the  kingdom 
of  Ireland,  and  he  sets  'em  to  buildin'  siven  great  castles,  each 
wan  on  a  different  high-up  mountain-top,  so  high  that  the 
peaks  and  shpires  of  some  of  them  made  holes  right  through 
the  blue  sky,  do  ye  mind?  Well,  whin  the  castles  were  all 


MRS.  PAT  AND  THE  LAW  19 

grand  and  ready  he  called  his  siven  sons  together,  an'  he  stood 
'em  all  up  in  a  glitterin'  row  and  he  said  to  'em, "  Now,  me  byes, 
it's  no  end  of  a  foine  time  ye've  been  havin'  a-skylarkin'  'round 
me  kingdom,  but  it's  siven  high  castles  I've  built  for  ye  now  and 
ye'd  better  be  gettin'  yourselves  wives  and  some  bits  of  furniture 
on  the  installment  plan,  maybe,  and  settlin'  down.  Go  forth 
now  through  all  the  world  and  find  ye  siven  beautiful  princesses, 
and  the  wan  of  ye  that  gits  the  beautifullest  shall  have  the 
biggest  castle." 

[NoRA  enters,  grim.    PAT  notes  her  demeanor,  but  concludes 

comment  is  unwise.    She  takes  off  her  bonnet  and  shawl 

and  goes  to  her  tub,  listening  to  PAT.] 

JIMMIE. 
Go  on,  Paw,  what  did  they  do  thin? 


PAT. 

[Keeping  a  weather  eye  on  NORA.] 

What  did  they  do  thin?  Well,  they  looked  and  looked  fer  a 
year  and  a  day,  ivery  jone  o'  them  in  a  different  counthry,  but 
whiniver  one  of  the  siven  would  be  findin'  a  princess  who  seemed 
handsome  and  likely,  whin  he  looked  again  careful  like,  he'd 
be  feared  one  of  his  brothers  would  be  findin'  a  handsomer  one, 
so  he'd  let  her  go  and  move  on. 


JIMMIE. 

An'  all  the  beautiful  princesses,  weren't  there  any  anywhere 
no  more? 


prim 


20  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

PAT. 

[Slapping  his  leg  in  the  joy  of  a  sudden  inspiration.] 
Faith,  Jimmie-boy,  it's  just  comin*  into  me  head  what  was 
the  throuble!  Shure  the  siven  grand  princes  must  'a'  looked  in 
the  church  window  the  day  I  married  your  Maw,  and  seem' 
her  that  wanst  o'  course  no  princess  could  plaze  'em  afther. 
It  was  green-eyed  envy  filled  their  siven  souls  that  day,  I'm 
thinkin',  for  Pat  O'Flaherty  gettin'  such  a  Jewell  and  nobody 
left  beautiful  enough  for  them  at  all! 

JIMMIE. 
Paw,  quit  yer  jokin'!    Git  along  with  the  story. 

PAT. 

Jimmie  darlin',  it's  not  jokin'  I  am.  Your  Maw's  a  Jewell, 
a  rael  beautiful  Jewell,  and  that's  the  truth.  I  don't  deserve  her, 
I  don't.  [Suddenly  breaks  down  and  sobs.] 


JIMMIE. 

Aw,  Paw,  don't  do  that — don't. 

[He  begins  to  whimper.  NORA  starts  to  comfort  him  when 
a  knock  is  heard.  PAT  shakes  himself  together  and  opens 
the  door,  and  JOHN  BING,  a  policeman,  enters.] 


A  policeman! 


PAT. 
[To  NORA.) 


MRS.  PAT  AND  THE  LAW  21 

JOHN  BING. 

[GlancinjFai  paper  in  his  hand.] 
Does  Patrick  O'Flaherty  live  here? 

PAT. 

Faith,  he  does  that,  an'  what  would  the  majestic  arrm  o' 
the  law  be  wantin',  if  ye  please,  intrudin'  in  a  peaceful  man's 
house? 

JOHN  BING. 

I've  a  warrant  here  for  the  arrest  of  Patrick  O'Flaherty  OB 
the  ground  of  repeated  violence  towards  his  wife. 

PAT. 
Howly  Saints!    An'  who  shwore  out  that  warrant? 

JOHN  BING. 

[Glancing  at  paper.] 

Nora  O'Flaherty.  [Looking  at  NORA.]  I  guess  it's  true,  all 
right.  Come  along. 

PAT. 

Nora!  You  niver  did  that  to  your  own  man?  [NoRA  makes 
no  reply  but  a  sniffle.]  Nora! 

JOHN  BING. 
Well,  hurry  up.    Better  come  quietly. 


22  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

JlMMIE. 

Paw,  what's  the  matter?  What's  he  come  for?  Make  him 
go  'way. 

PAT. 

[Taking  BING'S  coat  lapel  confidentially.] 

Mr.  Officer — you  see  the  little  lad  there?    He's — well — well, 

he'll  never  walk  no  more.     Perhaps  you  got  childer  yourself? 

Would  you  mind  just  waitin'  a  bit  of  a  minute,  or  maybe  two, 

till  I  finish  a  shtory  I  was  tellin'  him?    He'll  let  me  go  aisier  so. 

JOHN  BING. 

[Looking  at  his  watch.] 
Five  minutes,  then. 

PAT. 

Thank  ye  kindly.  [Returns  to  JIMMIE,  giving  his  lounge  a 
little  push  so  JIMMIE  mil  not  see  JOHN  BING.]  Now,  me  lad, 
where  were  we  in  the  shtory? 

JIMMIE. 
About  the  beautiful  princesses. 

PAT. 

Shure,  I'm  thinkin'  it's  mortal  weary  them  siven  princes 
will  be  lookin'  for  their  beautiful  princesses  all  this  time,  when 
right  here  in  this  room  with  us  two  all  so  happy  an'  lovin'-like 
is  your  Maw,  out  o'  their  reach.  [JIMMIE  suddenly  laughs  out 
merrily,  the  first  time  he  has  done  more  than  smile  wanly.]  So 
what  do  you  think  they  did  next? 


MRS.    PAT  AND  THE  LAW  23 

JlMMIE 

I  dunno. 

PAT. 
Guess. 

[Here  NORA,  who  has  been  weeping  and  washing  harder  and 
harder,  makes  a  dash  and  throws  open  the  door  to  the  hall, 
grabbing  the  warrant  meanwhile  out  of  the  hand  of  JOHN 
BING.] 

NORA. 

Mr.  Officer,  you  walk  right  out  o'  here  and  down  them  shtairs 
and  don't  you  be  waitin'  no  more  for  Patrick  O'Flaherty. 
He  ain't  goin'  with  you.  He's  goin'  to  git  a  job  stiddy  and 
shtay  here. 

JOHN  BING. 

You  withdraw  the  charge?  I'll  have  to  report  it  at  the 
station. 

NORA. 
Charge  nothin'!    You  git  out  o'  here. 

JOHN  BING. 

[Stopping  to  gaze  at  her  a  moment.] 

Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that?  The  next  time  one  of 
them  suffragist  ladies  asks  me  what  I  think,  I'll  tell  her  I  think 
women  is  fools,  that's  what  I'll  tell  her.  Yep,  all  fools!  [He 
goes  out.] 

[PAT  has  sat  discreetly  silent,  twirling  his  thumbs  rapidly 
and  looking  in  front  of  him.] 


4  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

JlMMIE. 

Paw!    What's  Maw  talkin'  about?    What  'u'd  he  want? 


PAT. 

Niver  you  mind,  Jimmie-boy.  It  was  just  payin'  the  O'Fla- 
herty  family  a  call  he  was,  nice  and  friendly  like.  Your  Maw 
invited  him,  but  when  she  saw  how  dishturbin'  his  august 
prisence  was  in  our  happy  home,  she  invited  him  out  again. 
Ain't  that  it,  Nora  darlin'? 

[He  holds  out  his  hand  to  NORA.    NORA  weakly  approaches, 
sniffling,  then  falls  on  his  neck.] 


NORA. 

Oh,  Pat,  Pat!  I  niver  meant  to  do  that  awful  thing— I  niver 
did.  I  dunno  what  made  me.  It  was  that  nurse  a-talkin'  at 
me.  She  put  a  spell  on  me,  she  did.  Oh  Pat,  oh  Pat! 


PAT. 

[Patting  her.] 

Niver  mind,  niver  mind.    I  know  ye  didn't.    It's  all  right. 
Niver  mind,  gurrl. 

[A  knock  at  the  door.    NORA  pulls  herself  free  and  opens 
the  door  to  Miss  CARROLL.] 


PAT. 

[Retreating.] 
It's  that  dam'  nurse!    She'll  be  the  death  o'  me 


MRS.  PAT  AND  THE  LAW  25 

Miss  CARROLL. 

[Coming  quickly  forward  towards  JIMMIE.] 
I  can't  stop  a  second.  I  just  ran  in  to  tell  Jimmie-boy  I've 
been  telephoning  and  it's  all  fixed.  The  bran'-new  suit's  going 
to  happen  next  Saturday.  It's  my  half-holiday  and  I'll  come 
for  you  in  a  taxi  and  we'll  go  down-town  and  we'll  buy  it  all 
bran'  new  to  fit,  made  just  for  Jimmie. 

JIMMIE. 
Aw!  'tain't  so.    You're  kiddin'  me! 

Miss  CARROLL. 

Tis  so,  honor  bright!  Cross  my  heart  and  hope  to  die. 
Well,  I  must  run.  [Suddenly  appreciating  NORA'S  aspect.]  Why, 
Mrs.  O'Flaherty,  what's  the  matter? 

NORA. 

The  matter  is  you're  a  wicked,  interferin'  woman,  a-makin'  me 
do  them  awful  things  to  me  pore  man  there!  Look  at  him,  so 
sweet  and  gentle  like!  Ain't  ye  'shamed  o'  yourself,  a-plottin' 
and  workin'  to  put  apart  them  as  God  has  j'ined  together  in 
the  howly  estate  of  matrimony?  It's  a  bad,  wicked  woman  I 
am  to  be  listenin'  to  your  terrible  talk.  That  there  horrid  big 
officer  in  his  shiny  buttons,  lookin'  so  fat  and  so  satisfied, 
waitin'  there  at  the  door  to  grab  up  me  pore  man  hasn't  a 
coat  to  his  back  hardly! 

Miss  CARROLL. 
What  about  the  boot,  Mrs.  O'Flaherty? 


J 


26  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

NORA. 

The  boot,  is  it?  Shure  it's  the  careless  woman  I  am,  happen- 
in'  in  the  way  whin  he  was  takin'  'em  off  and  he  with  a  bit  of 
the  creature  in  him  made  him  excited  like. 

Miss  CARROLL. 

All  right,  Mrs.  O'Flaherty,  I'm  sorry.  I  won't  give  any  more 
advice.  It's  against  the  rules.  I  shouldn't  have  said  anything. 
[She  looks  at  PAT,  who  has  been  regarding  her  quizzically  while 
NORA  holds  forth,  and  now,  catching  her  eye,  has  the  impertinence 
to  wink.  Miss  CARROLL  struggles  hard  not  to  respond  to  his  grin, 
but  can't  quite  keep  her  gravity.]  You  see,  I  haven't  any  man  of 
my  own,  so  I  suppose  it's  hard  for  me  to  understand  married 
life.  Good-bye  till  tomorrow.  [She  waves  her  hand  to  JIMMIE, 
accomplishes  one  severe  look  at  PAT,  and  vanishes.  PAT  waves 
her  off  gaily.] 

PAT. 

Goo'-bye,  Miss  Carroll,  goo'-bye!  Goo'-bye!  [He  gets  his 
hat  and  coat,  chuckling  to  himself.] 

JIMMIE. 

Did  ye  hear  that,  Maw?  A  bran'-new  suit  made  just  for  me. 
Nobody  else  never  wore  it  at  all,  an'  we'll  go  in  a  taxi  to  buy  it 
on  Saturday.  Gee!  Ain't  it  nice? 

PAT. 

[Sidling  up  to  NORA  at  the  tub.] 

Nora  darlin',  I'm  thinkin'  it's  a  foine  job  I'll  be  gettin'  this 
day  for  the  askin';  the  heart's  that  big  in  me  for  gratitude,  it  ;11 


MRS.  PAT  AND  THE  LAW  27 

shine  right  out  through  me  two  eyes  and  make  me  hopeful  and 
stiddy-lookin',  so  that  some  boss  '11  think  he's  got  a  grand  man  to 
work  for  him.  I'd  better  be  startin'  along  now,  I  suppose,  er 
some  other  chap  '11  git  there  before  me.  Say,  Nora,  it's  only 
about  twinty  cints  I  do  be  needin'  for  carfare. 

NORA. 
Pat,  twinty  cents  is  a  lot.    Where  you  goin'9 

PAT. 

Well,  maybe  fifteen  cints  would  do  if  I  walk  the  wan  way 
where  there  ain't  no  transfer.  Shure  it's  hard  on  the  poor  when 
the  shtreet-car  companies  git  mad  at  each  other.  Say,  Nora, 
I  know  a  place  where  a  good  job  is  waitin'  for  Pat  0 'Flaherty, 
but  the  great  city  lies  between  us.  Cruel  long  and  wide  it  is,  and 
hard  stones  all  the  way.  It's  too  weary  and  sad  like  I'd  look 
on.  arrivin',  an'  I  couldn't  ride  on  the  cars  to  git  there.  Oh, 
come  across  with  the  fifteen  cents! 

[NoRA  dubiously  gets  down  an  old  china  teapot  from  the  shelf 
and  takes  out  five  cents,  which  she  gives  him  gravely.  She 
then  gets  five  cents  from  another  secret  place.] 


PAT. 

[As  she  is  getting  the  money.] 
Faith,  there's  money  all  over  the  place. 

[NoRA  then  gets  five  pennies  from  the  depths  of  her  pocket  and 
slowly  counts  out  the  fifteen  cents  into  his  hand.] 


28  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

PAT. 

[Kissing  her.] 

Oh!  That's  the  shweetest  wife  ever  blessed  a  bad,  bad  spalpeen 

of  a  husband.   Good-bye,  gurrl!   'Bye,  Jimmie-boy.    Be  thinkin' 

what  the  siven  princes  could  do,  they  havin'  seen  your  Maw 

through  the  church  window,  and  I'll  finish  the  shtory  tomorrow. 

[PAT  exits,  whistling,  NORA  watching  him  at  the  door.] 


JIMMIE. 


Maw,  what's  a  fool  softy? 
[NoRA  wilts.] 


CURTAIN. 


THE 
DRAMA  CLASS  OF  TANKAHA,  NEVADA 

(Written  in  collaboration  with  Harriet  Calhoun  Moss) 


Played  for  the  first  time  on  October  23  and  24,  1914, 
by  Mrs.  CHAS.  ATKINSON,  Mrs.  CHAS.  HUBBARD,  Mrs. 
SAMUEL  CHASE,  Mrs.  HOWARD  SHAW,  Mrs.  LAIRD  BELL, 
Mrs.  SAMUEL  INSULL,  Miss  EVELYN  SHAW,  Mrs.  ARTHUR 
ALOIS,  Mr.  CHAS.  ATKINSON,  Mr.  DORR  BRADLEY,  and 
Mrs.  HENRY  HUBBARD. 


THE 
DRAMA  CLASS  OF  TANKAHA,  NEVADA. 

THE  PROLOGUE. 

CHARACTERS: 

MRS.  BENNETT,  Hostess  of  the  Class  for  the  Day, 
a  recent  arrival  in  Tankaha,  young,  well- 
dressed,  progressive. 

MRS.  FESSENDEN,  Chairman  of  the  Drama  Class,  a 
firm  lady,  native  of  Tankaha,  with  Standards. 

Miss  JENNINGS,  Secretary  of  the  Class,  unwed  and 
emotional. 

MRS.  STEDMAN,  a  Mother,  pre-eminently. 

MRS.  BROKMORTON,  an  Aspirant  of  Culture. 

Miss  FESSBNDEN,  daughter  of  MRS.  FESSENDEN, 
the*  Chairman,   a  young   woman   struggling 
under  difficulties  towards  Modernity. 
I  MRS.  BENNETT'S  MAID. 

Characters  of  the  Play  within  the  Play: 

PAOLO Mr.  Algernon  Manning 

ANNA,  his  wife Miss  Sibyl  Carrington 

MARIO,  his  brother Mr.  Emil  Konrad 

MADDELENA,  an  old  family  servant .  Miss  Frances  Nellis 
(Taken  by  members  of  a  theatrical  company  playing  a  week's 
engagement  at  the  Tankaha  Opera  House.) 


32  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

SCENE  :  The  sitting-room  of  the  hostess  of  the  day — MRS.  BENNETT. 
A  tastefully  furnished  apartment,  modern;  at  left  (from 
audience)  a  desk  or  writing-table;  at  right  a  sofa;  back,  a 
fireplace;  entrance  at  R.  and  L.;  a  few  books,  photographs, 
flowers,  etc. 

When  the  curtain  rises  MRS.  BENNETT,  with  the  MAID,  is  dis 
covered  completing  the  arrangements  to  receive  the  Drama  Class. 
She  puts  a  small  table  with  paper  and  pencil  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  and  counts  six  seats,  three  on  each  side,  glances 
at  the  clock.  MRS.  and  Miss  FESSENDEN  enter;  usual 
greetings. 

MRS.  BENNETT. 

How  do  you  do!  How  do  you  do!  I  can't  help  feeling  a  little 
nervous,  entertaining  the  class  for  the  first  time — a  new-comer, 
you  know. 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 

[Taking  off  things.] 
Oh,  no  need;  no  need. 

MRS.  BENNETT. 

But  you're  all  so  clever,  you  seem  to  know  just  how  to  look 
up  everything.  Now  I —  [She  breaks  off  to  greet  new-comers, 
Miss  JENNINGS  and  MRS.  STEDMAN.]  How  do  you  do!  How 
do  you  do!  Do  take  off  your  things,  etc.,  etc.  [Bustle  of  taking 
off  wraps,  which  maid  takes  away  while  MRS.  BENNETT  speaks 
to  MRS.  FESSENDEN.] 

MRS.  BENNETT. 

Madam  Chairman,  you've  no  idea  the  trouble  I've  had  trying 
to  find  out  about  Giacosa  for  the  class  today.  There  wasn't 


THE  DRAMA  CLASS  Of  TANKAHA        33 

anything  about  him  or  by  him  to  be  found  in  Tankaha.  At 
the  library  they  said  the  only  Italian  writer  that  they  had  was 
Longfellow's  translation  of  Dante.  They  told  me  one  of  the 
members  of  the  Board  of  Trustees  had  once  wanted  to  buy 
some  of  D'Annunzio's  plays,  but  as  his  resignation  was  sent 
in  immediately  after  making  the  proposal,  nothing  had  been 
donex  [MRS.  BROKMORTON  enters.]  Oh,  how  do  you  do, 
Mrs.  Brokmorton?  [Glances  around.]  I  think  we  are  all  here, 
Madam  Chairman. 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 

[Taking  the  Chair  and  picking  up  gavel] 
Will  the  meeting  please  come  to  order?    We  will  listen  to  the 
minutes  of  the  previous  meeting. 

[Miss  JENNINGS  rises  and  clears  her  throat.] 

Miss  JENNINGS. 

[Reading.] 

The  Drama  and  Poetry  Class  of  Tankaha  Culture  Club  met 
on  Tuesday,  January  10th,  at  the  residence  of  Mrs.  Brokmorton, 
Mrs.  Fessenden,  the  Chairman,  presiding.  The  minutes  of  the 
previous  meeting  were  read  and  approved,  then  followed  the 
program  for  the  day,  subject,  Omar  Khayyam,  essayist,  Mrs. 
Brokmorton.  The  paper  thoughtfully  considered  the  work  of 
the  Persian  poet  from  the  standpoint  of  its  influence  in  the  home. 
Discussion  followed: 

Mrs.  Stedman  said  that  whereas  she  appreciated  the  beauty  of 
many  of  the  lines  and  was  glad  the  Drama  Class  had  chosen 
it  as  a  subject,  she  thought  it  would  be  unwise  to  place  this 
poem  in  the  hands  of  young  people. 


34  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

Miss  Fessenden  said  she  thought  young  people  should  be 
allowed  to  read  beautiful  literature,  no  matter  what  the  subject. 

Mrs.  Bennett  thought  the  philosophy  inconclusive,  quoting 
the  line  "But  evermore,  came  out  by  the  same  door  wherein 
I  went." 

Mrs.  Brokmorton,  the  essayist,  said  the  more  she  had  studied 
the  beautiful  quatrains  the  more  she  had  been  convinced  that 
it  was  extremely  difficult  for  us  in  America  to  appreciate  and 
understand  the  poet's  point  of  view. 

Mrs.  Fessenden,  the  Chairman,  said  it  did  not  surprise  her 
that  the  poem  was  sad,  when  the  poet  evidently  had  no  religious 
faith.  She  then  announced  the  subject  of  the  next  meeting 
— a  paper  on  the  Italian  dramatist  Giacosa,  by  Mrs.  Bennett, 
the  meeting  to  be  held  at  the  home  of  the  essayist  of  the  day  on 
January  24th.  On  motion  the  meeting  adjourned. 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 

If  there  are  no  objections  the  minutes  will  stand  approved. 
They  are  approved.  Are  you  ready,  Mrs.  Bennett? 

MRS.  BENNETT. 

[Rising.] 

Madam  Chairman,  I  started  to  tell  you  that  I  found  it  very 
difficult  to  ascertain  anything  about  Giacosa  in  Tankaha.  Yes 
terday  I  learned  that  one  of  the  members  of  the  company  now 
playing  at  the  Opera  House  knew  of  a  play  by  Giacosa.  I 
called  on  her  at  the  hotel  with  the  result  that  I  have  a  surprise 
for  you.  Four  of  the  members  of  the  company  are  going  to 
give  us  this  afternoon  a  short  play  by  Giacosa  called  "Sacred 
Ground"  right  here  in  this  room.  [She  stops  and  looks  around 


THE  DRAMA  CLASS  OF  TANKAHA         35 

for  encouragement.    Stir  of  excitement  and  surprise  in  the  class. 

MRS.  BENNETT  hurries  on  to  explain.]    They  said  they  didn't 

need  any  scenery,  and  told  me  how  to  arrange  the  room.    We 

are  to  go  into  the  dining-room.    I  thought  it  was  much  nicer 

than  writing  a  paper  on  an  author  I  didn't  know  anything  about. 

[MRS.  FESSENDEN  and  MRS.  STEDMAN  both  glance  protect- 

ingly  at  Miss  FESSENDEN.] 


MRS.  FESSENDEN. 

That  is  very  interesting,  a  surprise  indeed.  Do  you  —  er  — 
know  anything  about  the  play?  It  would  have  been  wiser, 
perhaps,  to  consult  — 

Miss  FESSENDEN. 

Oh,  mamma,  it's  such  a  nice  plan!  [To  MRS.  BENNETT.] 
Are  they  here  now?  Right  here  in  this  house?  The  actors  and 
actresses? 

MRS.  BENNETT. 
Yes,  they  are  waiting  up-stairs. 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 

Well,  I  suppose  it  is  all  right,  quite  a  surprise—  [She  rises, 
as  do  they  all.] 

MRS.  BENNETT. 

Now  please  sit  there  near  the  doorway. 

[The  ladies  step  down  in  front,  off  stage,  some  a  little  dubiously, 
Miss  FESSENDEN  and  Miss  JENNINGS  enthusiastically.] 


36  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

MRS.  BENNETT. 

Minnie!  [The  MAID  enters.]  Here,  quickly,  help  me  move 
these  things  the  way  I  showed  you.  [They  move  chairs  off, 
tables  back,  etc.] 

[The  MAID  disappears.    MRS.  BENNETT  steps  down  and  joins 
others.] 

Play  follows— (l Sacred  Ground." 

The  story  is  briefly  as  follows:  ANNA  has  remained  true  to  PAOLO, 
her  husband,  in  spite  of  her  love  for  the  latter' s  cousin  LUCIANO, 
who  has  committed  suicide  just  before  the  play  opens,  because 
of  her  resistance.  PAOLO  discovers  the  reason  for  LUCIANO'S 
death  through  ANNA'S  letters  which  he  finds  on  the  body  and 
reads.  He  tries  to  probe  to  the  depths  of  his  wife's  soul.  She 
warns  him  to  desist,  finally  cries  out  that  she  loved  LUCIANO, 
and  ends  by  leaving  PAOLO.* 


EPILOGUE. 

After  the  Giacosa  play  ANNA,  PAOLO,  MARIO  and  MADDELENA 
come  out  to  bow  to  the  applause  of  the  Drama  Class.  The 
ladies  step  up  on  the  stage  again.  Miss  JENNINGS  is  sniffling; 
MRS.  BENNETT  and  Miss  FESSENDEN  rush  up  enthusiastic 
ally,  the  others  more  slowly.  MRS.  FESSENDEN  has  paper 
and  pencil  in  her  hand.  MRS.  BENNETT  introduces  the 

*  The  play,  "Diritti  dell  Anima,"  translated  by  Edith  and  Allan 
Updegraff  under  the  title  "Sacred  Ground,"  is  published  by  Mitchell 
Kennerley,  New  York,  in  the  Modern  Drama  series.  Application 
to  Edwin  Bjorkman  through  the  publishers  should  be  made  for 
permission  to  give  a  dramatic  presentation. 


THE  DRAMA  CLASS  OF  TANKAHA        37 

players — "Miss  Jennings,  Mr.  Algernon  Manning,  Miss 
Sibyl  Carrington,  Mrs.  Fessenden,  our  Chairman,"  etc. 
Congratulations  and  general  flutter. 

Miss  CARRINGTON. 

You're  very  kind.  Pleasure  to  play  to  you!  Such  a  sym 
pathetic  audience!  So  comprehending!  It  was  nothing  to 
"put  it  over"  to  you!  [Turns  to  MR.  MANNING,  snuggling 
up  to  him.]  Poor  darling!  I  do  treat  you  atrociously,  don't  I? 
But  you  know  I  don't  mean  it!  [Affectionate  business  between 
"ANNA"  and  "PAOLO"  as  they  disappear.] 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 

[Through  her  lorgnons.] 
Are  they  man  and  wife? 

MRS.  BENNETT. 
I  think  that — well —    Perhaps  they're — they're  engaged — 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 

Ladies,  the  meeting  will  please  come  to  order  for  the  purpose 
of  discussing  the  play.  [They  move  quickly  the  chairs  and  tables 
to  their  former  positions,  as  in  the  prologue,  and  take  their  places.] 
I  think  we  are  agreed  as  to  our  indebtedness  to  the  essayist  of 
the  day,  Mrs.  Bennett,  for  arranging  the  play.  We  do  not 
need  to  pass  a  formal  vote  of  thanks.  Our  hostess  cannot  fail 
to  have  seen  our  evident — er — interest.  A  discussion  of  the 
play  is  now  in  order.  To  facilitate  this  I  have  jotted  down  a 
few  questions  which  occurred  to  me  during  the  presentation  of 


38  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

this — er — unusual  play.  Here  is  the  first  question.  [Reads.] 
"Is  it  to  be  regretted  that  Giacosa  compressed  the  material  for 
a  rare  psychological  development  into  the  narrow  frame  of  a 
single  act?" 

MRS.  BROKMORTON. 


Madam  Chairman,  it  seems  to  me  the  volcanic  character  of 
the  problem  presented  calls  for  brevity  rather  than  prolixity. 
The  eruption  was  sudden,  torrential,  devastating,  and  does  not 
need,  nay,  does  not  permit  of  elaboration.  What  would  have 
been  .gained  had  we  had  a  preceding  act,  for  instance?  Nothing. 
Had  we  witnessed  the  despair  and  suicide  of  Luciano  the  situa 
tion  would  not  have  been  developed  more  clearly  than  it  was  by 
Paolo's  explanation  to  Mario  about  the  letters.  It  seems  to 
me  this  play  is  a  masterpiece  of  construction;  I  consider  one 
act  is  sufficient. 

MRS.  STEDMAN. 

[Rising  very  slowly.] 

There  is  a  far  more  important  reason  for  brevity  than  con 
struction.  Even  a  one-act  play  may  be  one  act  too  long.  For  a 
mixed  audience,  or  for  innocent  young  minds,  I  should  suggest 
the  less  the  better  of  this  sort  of  food.  [Sits  down  hard.] 

^ 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 

I  think  that  this  play  is  strong  mental  pabulum  for  any  age! 
We  will  consider  one  act  is  sufficient.  [Picks  up  paper.]  Here 
is  the  second  question:  "Are  Paolo's  nature  and  the  quality 
of  his  love  for  Anna  above  or  below  those  of  the  average  well-bred 
gentleman  of  our  acquaintance?" 


THE  DRAMA  CLASS  OF  TANKAHA        39 

Miss  FESSENDEN. 

Well,  I  don't  think  a  well-bred  gentleman  ought  to  pry  like 
that. 

Miss  JENNINGS. 

I  haven't  any  husband,  of  course,  but  I  should  think  a  husband 
would  want  to  know  whether  — 

MRS.  BENNETT. 

But  she'd  done  all  she  could!  She'd  been  faithful,  hadn't 
she?  She  couldn't  help  what  she  felt.  What  right  had  he  to 
foroe  her  confession?  , 

Jv*™ 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 

Let  us  put  the  question  in  another  form  first.  ft  Should  a  wife 
have  a  secret  of  any  sort  from  her  husband?" 

MRS.  STEDMAN. 

[Rising  slowly  again  and  commanding  attention  from  her  majesty 

of  demeanor.] 

Never!  A  true  wife's  mind  should  be  as  clear,  as  transparent 
as  glass,  permitting  her  husband  to  read  every  thought.  Paolo, 
the  husband,  had  the  right  to  know! 


MRS.  BENNETT. 
But—  but— 

MRS.  STEDMAN. 
Paolo  had  the  right! 


40  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

MRS.  BENNETT. 
But  the  question  was — 

Miss  FESSENDEN. 
Yes,  yes — whether  Paolo —    He  tormented  her — 

MRS.  BENNETT. 
He  had  no  right — 

MRS.  BROKMORTON. 

But  let  us  consider  the  play  as  a  play.  This  is  a  drama  class — 
what  matter  whether  he  had  or  he  hadn't — 

Miss  JENNINGS. 
It  seems  to  me — 

MRS.  STEDMAN. 

When  you  are  considering  a  play,  such  questions  as  these  are 
the  first  to  be  dealt  with! 

[Each  interrupted  lady  mutters  the  end  of  her  remark,  but 
not  so  as  to  prevent  the  next  one's  being  heard.  An  air  of 
excited  confusion  prevails,  no  one  listening  much  to  what  any 
one  says.] 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 

[Rapping.] 

Order!  We  will  proceed  to  the  next  question.  [Reads.]  "Do 
Latin  dramatists  give  greater  importance  to — er — what  is  called 
— sex  problems  [she  brings  out  the  awful  word  with  a  distinct  effort] 
than  those  of  Teutonic  nations?" 


THE   DRAMA  CLASS  OF  TANKAHA        41 

MRS.  BENNETT. 

[Hopping  up  and  instantly  beginning.    One  or  two  others  try  to 

speak,  but  vainly.] 

Isn't  it  a  question  of  attitude  rather  than  importance?  The 
attitude  of  the  Teutonic  dramatists,  with  the  exception  of 
Bernard  Shaw  and  his  type,  is  always  one  of  disapproval,  implied 
or  expressed,  of  all  passion,  whether  licit  or  illicit.  They  ignore 
it,  or  when  they  can't  ignore  it  they  despise  it,  whereas  the 
Latin  dramatist  treats  of  passion  openly  and  joyously  without 
self-consciousness,  as  the  most  exquisite  joy — to  be  grasped 
whenever  and  wherever  it  can  be  reached.  In  this  instance 
the  author  clearly  sympathizes  with  Anna  in  her  regret  for  her 
renunciation.  Don't  you  see  his  play  is  a  protest  against  the 
situation  in  which  she  finds  herself  which  obliges  her  to  renounce? 
We  may  not  agree  with  the  author  [somebody  exclaims  devoutly 
"I  should  hope  not!"],  but  we  might  at  least  try  to  understand 
his  point  of  view? 

[She  speaks  passionately.  As  she  sits  down  Miss  FESSEN- 
DEN,  who  is  on  the  edge  of  her  chair,  all  eagerness,  claps 
her  hands  softly  together  in  scared  approbation.  There  is  a 
general  stir  of  surprise.] 

MRS.  BROKMORTON. 

[Rising.] 

You  mean,  of  course,  merely  understanding  the  point  of  view, 
not  sympathizing  with  it? 

Miss  FESSENDEN. 

But  if  you  understand  it — how  can  you  help  sympathizing? 
If  she  loved — 


42  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 

[Interrupting.] 

My  child!  We  are  getting  far  from  the  question  [consults 
paper]  which  related  to  Latin  and  Teutonic  dramatists.  How 
ever,  let  us  drop  it  and  proceed  to  the  next,  which  is  important 
and  timely.  [Rapping.]  Here  is  my  next  question.  [Reads.] 
"Is  Anna's  attitude  towards  her  husband  absolutely  right?" 
"How  is  it  possible  that  the  love  of  years  should  have  changed 
to  hate  in  this  brief  twenty-four  hours?" 

Miss  JENNINGS. 

She  never  loved  her  husband!  She  loved  Luciano.  She  not 
only  confessed  it,  she  gloried  in  it.  Don't  you  remember  she 
said  to  Paolo,  "Couldn't  you  see  I  was  longing  to  tell  you?" 
There  was  no  love  to  change  to  hate. 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 

No  love?  Then  why,  pray,  did  she  write  "  I  love  my  husband, 
i  LOVE  MY  HUSBAND!" 

Miss  JENNINGS. 

But  when  she  wrote  that  she  had  not  broken  the  fetters,  she 
was  struggling.  She  loved  Luciano,  she  felt  herself  yielding, 
she  knew  danger  was  near  and  so  she  lied  to  protect  herself, 
can't  you  understand? 

MRS.  BENNETT. 
Oh  yes,  don't  you  see?    It  seems  to  me  so  clear — 


THE  DRAMA  CLASS  OF  TANKAHA        43 

Miss  FESSENDEN. 

Oh,  mother,  I  understand  her  feeling  perfectly!  She  had 
been  repressed  so  long!  She  did  not  dare  tell  the  truth,  so  she 
lied  hard! 

Miss  JENNINGS. 
But  don't  you  see — 

[General  confusion — everybody  talks  at  once  and  excitedly — 
each  one  true  to  type — remarks  similar  to  previous  ones. 
MRS.  STEDMAN  is  heard  darkly  murmuring,  "  The  morals  of 
the  youth  of  Tankahal"] 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 

[Raps.] 

Order!  This  question  does  not  admit  of  discussion.  She 
loved  her  husband.  Here  is  the  last  question.  [Reads.]  "When 
Anna  quits  the  conjugal  home  for  reasons  which  move  us  do 
these  reasons  also  convince  us?"  Kindly  speak  one  at  a  time. 

Miss  JENNINGS. 

They  convince  me!  When  love  is  dead — how  could  she  stay? 
Don't  you  remember  those  beautiful  lines: 

"The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes  and  the  day  but  one, 
Yet?  the  light  of  the  whole  world  dies  with  the  setting  sun. 

"The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes  and  the  heart  but  one, 
Yet  the  light  of  the  whole  life  dies  when  love  is  done." 

Miss  FESSENDEN. 

Mother,  I  will  speak!  I  know  she  never  loved  her  husband — 
I  know  she  always  loved  Luciano.  I  only  wish  she  had  gone  to 


44  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

him.  It  would  have  been  a  higher  standard  of  morality.  There! 
[She  drops  into  her  chair.  MRS.  FESSENDEN  opens  her  mouth,  but 
finds  no  words.] 

•  Miss  JENNINGS. 

Goodness! 

MRS.  STEDMAN. 

[To  MRS.  FESSENDEN.] 

That's — what — comes!  Maria  Fessenden,  didn't  I  tell  you 
two  years  ago  not  to  let  her  go  to  Kindle  Wakes? 

MRS.  BROKMORTON. 

But  what  has  all  this  got  to  do  with  the  discussion  of  the 
play  as  a  play?  This  is  a  drama  class,  not  a  mothers'  meeting. 

MRS.  BENNETT. 

[A  good  deal  scared,  as  she  knows  it  is  her  previous  remarks  that 

have  inspired  Miss  FESSENDEN  to  her  outburst.] 
To  defend  and  ask  comprehension  for  the  attitude  of  Latin 
dramatists  is  a  very  different  thing  from — 

[As  before  each  lady  continues  her  views,  the  separate  sen 
tences  rising  as  a  bugle-note  sounds  out  above  an  orchestra.] 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 

[Raps.] 

Ladies,  orderly  discussion  is  impossible  unless  you  speak  one 
at  a  time.  My  daughter  has  uttered  an  extraordinary  statement 
of  her  views.  I  should  like  to  ask  each  member  of  the  class 
separately  whether  she  agrees  with  these  views.  [Her  expression 
says  tl dares  to  agree."] 


THE  DRAMA  CLASS  OF  TANKAHA        45 

MRS.  BROKMORTON. 

Pardon  me,  Madam  Chairman,  but  it  seems  to  me  your 
daughter's  views  as  to  whether  Anna  should  have  gone  with 
Luciano  or  not  are  wholly  irrelevant.  They  do  not  concern  us. 
They  are  unimportant.  Now,  Giacosa — 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 

Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Brokmorton,  you  may  be  right  technically, 
but  I  am  a  mother  first,  chairman  of  this  class  second.  There 
is  a  far  higher  question  involved  than  consideration  of  a  play. 
I  shall  put  the  question  to  each  one !  [She  faces  Miss  JENNINGS 
with  her  eye.]  Miss  Jennings,  do  you? 

Miss  JENNINGS. 

[With  a  gulp.    She  has  been  weeping  off  and  on  from  the  general 

intensity  and  the  difficulty  of  keeping  her  minutes.] 
No. 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 
Mrs.  Stedman,  do  you? 

MRS.  STEDMAN. 
No!! 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 
Mrs.  Brokmorton,  do  you? 

MRS.  BROKMORTON. 
Of  course  not;  but  it  doesn't  matter— 


46  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

MRS.  BENNETT. 

[Badly  scared,  feeling  she  has  precipitated  the  row.    She  wants  to 
say  "No,"  and  almost  does  so,  then,  recalling  she  must  stand  by 
Miss  FESSENDEN,  she  murmurs:] 
I  don't  think  so. 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 

You  don't  think  so!    That  means  you  agree  at  heart,  but 
don't  dare  say  so?    Am  I  right? 

MRS.  BENNETT. 
No,  no!    Oh,  dear! 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 

It  would  seem  the  younger  generation  does  not  know  the 
meaning  of  the  word  S-I-N. 

[Hurly-burly  begins  again.] 

MRS.  FESSENDEN. 
Order!    Order! 


CURTAIN. 


EXTREME  UNCTION 


Played  for  the  first  time  on  October  23  and  24,  1914, 
by  Miss  ISABEL  McBiRNEY,  Miss  VOLNEY  FOSTER, 
Mrs.  EDWARD  POPE,  Mrs.  HENRY  HUBBARD,  and  Mr. 
ROSECRANS  BALDWIN. 


EXTREME  UNCTION. 

CHARACTERS: 

A  DYING  PROSTITUTE  A  SOCIETY  LADY 

A  SALVATION  ARMY  LASSIE  A  DOCTOR 

A  NURSE 

SCENE  :  The  screened  space  around  a  high,  narrow  bed  in  a  hospital 
ward.  Record-card  hanging  above.  The  screens  have  anti 
septic  white  sheets  over  them. 

When  the  curtain  rises  the  nurse  is  straightening  and 
tucking  in  with  uncomfortable  tightness  the  white  counterpane 
of  the  bed.  On  the  bed,  with  eyes  closed,  lies  what  is  left  of  a 
girl  of  eighteen  or  twenty.  The  nurse  takes  the  thermometer 
from  the  girl's  mouth,  looks  at  it,  shakes  her  head,  and  makes 
a  record  note  on  the  chart.  She  gives  the  girl  water  to  drink 
and  leaves  her  with  a  final  pull  to  straighten  the  bedclotJies. 
The  girl  tosses  restlessly,  moans  a  little  and  impatiently 
kicks  at  and  pulls  the  bedclothes  out  at  the  foot,  exclaiming, 
"God,  I  wish  they'd  lemme  'lone!" 

[THE  LADY  enters.] 

THE  LADY. 

Hattie  dear,  were  you  sleeping?  No?  See,  I've  brought  you 
some  roses.  Aren't  they  fresh  and  sweet?  Shall  I  put  them  in 
water? 


50  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

THE  GIRL. 
I  don'  want  Jem! 

THE  LADY. 

All  rigM^  dear.  We'll  just  put  them  aside.  I  know  some 
times  the  perfume  is  too  strong  if  one  isn't  quite  oneself. 
Shall  I  read  to  you? 

THE  GIRL. 
If  you  want  to. 

THE  LADY. 
What  shall  I  read? 

THE  GIRL. 
I  don'  care. 

THE  LADY. 
A  story,  perhaps? 

THE  GIRL. 
All  right— fire  it  off. 

THE  LADY. 

And  then  afterwards,  Hattie  dear,  perhaps  if  you'd  let  me, 
the  twenty-third  psalm.  It's  so  gentle  and  quiet!  You  might 
go  to  sleep— and  when  you  awakened  you'd  hear  those  comfort 
ing  words. 


EXTREME  UNCTION  51 

THE  GIRL. 

Is  that  the  one  about  the  valley?  God,  but  I'm  sick  of  it! 
Gives  me  the  jimmies.  Got  a  story? 

[THE  LADY  puts  the  flowers  back  in  their  box — takes  off  her 
wrap  and  settles  herself  to  read  aloud  from  a  magazine. 

Marianna  Lane  swung  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  in  the  ham 
mock,  tapping  her  small,  brown  toe  on  the  porch  as  she  swung.  It 
was  a  charming  porch,  framed  in  clematis  and  woodbine,  but 
Marianna  had  no  eye  for  its  good  points.  She  was  lying  with  two 
slim  arms  clasped  behind  her  head,  staring  vacantly  up  at  the 
ceiling  and  composing  a  poem.  On  the  wicker  table  beside  her  stood 
a  glass  of  malted  milk  and  a  teaspoon.  They  were  not  the  subject 
of  the  poem,  but  they  were  nevertheless  responsible  for  it.  Her 
cousin  Frank,  who  lived  in  the  next  house,  had  been  inspired  to 
make  up  an  insulting  ditty. 

"  Grocerman,  bring  a  can 
Baby-food  for  Mary  Ann!" 

[THE  GIRL  listens  for  a  moment  with  a  faint  show  of  interest^ 
then  goes  back  to  her  restless  tossing.] 

THE  GIRL. 

[Interrupting.] 
Say,  d'ye  know  I'm  done  for? 

THE  LADY. 
Oh  no!    You're  getting  better  every  day. 

THE  GIRL. 

Oh,  quit  it!  I'm  goin',  I  tell  ye.  I've  got  a  head-piece  on  me, 
haven't  I?  I  can  tell — they've  stopped  doin'  all  them  things  to 


52  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

me.  The  doctor  just  sets  down  there  where  you  are  and  looks 
at  me— and,  say— he's  got  gump,  that  doctor.  He's  the  only 
one  knows  I  know. 

THE  LADY. 

You  mustn't  talk  like  that.  I'm  sure  you're  going  to  get  well. 
[Girl  makes  an  angry  snort.]  Now  try  and  lie  quiet.  You 
mustn't  get  excited,  you  know,  it  isn't  good  for  sick  people. 
I'll  go  on  with  the  story.  You'll  see.  Now  listen,  will  you, 
dear?  It's  quite  interesting.  [Reads.] 

tt  Grocerman,  bring  a  can 
Baby-food  for  Mary  Ann!" 

he  sang  loudly  over  the  hedge  whenever  he  caught  sight  of  Marianna's 
middy  blouse  and  yellow  pigtails.  That  was  yesterday.  To-day 
the  malted  milk  was  standing  untouched  upon  the  wicker  table, 
and  Marianna  in  the  hammock  was  trying  to  think  up  an  offensive 
rhyme  for  Frank.  When  she  found  it,  she  intended  to  go  around  on 
the  other  side  of  the  house  and  shout  it  as  loud  as  ever  she  could  in 
the  direction  of  her  uncle's  garden.  This,  it  is  true,  was  a  tame 
revenge.  What  Marianna  really  wanted  to  do  was  to  go  over  and 
pinch  her  cousin  Frank;  but  that,  unhappily,  was  out  of  the  ques 
tion,  as  Frank  had  a  cold,  and  she  was  strictly  forbidden  to  go  near 
anybody  with  a  cold.* 

THE  GIRL. 

[Interrupting.] 

Lady,  where  d'  you  think  you're  goin'  to  when  you  kick  it? 
Tell  me! 

THE  LADY. 

Why — I  don't  know —  To  Heaven,  I  hope — but  you  mustn't — 
*  From  The  Century,  March,  1914. 


EXTREME  UNCTION  53 

THE  GIRL. 
What  makes  you  think  you're  goin'  to  Heaven? 

THE  LADY. 

Well — I  think  so  because — well — because  I've  always  tried 
to  do  right — no,  no — I  didn't  mean  that  exactly.  Of  course 
I've  done  millions  of  wrong  things — but  I  mean —  Oh,  Hattie 
dear,  Heaven  is  such  a  vague  term!  All  we  know  is  that  it  is  a 
beautiful  place  where  we'll  be  happy,  and  that  we're  going  there. 

THE  GIRL. 
How  do  you  know  we're  goin'? 

THE  LADY. 
I  don't  know.     I  believe. 

THE  GIRL. 

But  how  do  you  know  the  wrong  things  you  done  won't  keep 
you  out? 

THE  LADY. 
Now  I'm  afraid  you're  exciting  yourself — 

THE  GIRL. 

Oh,  Lord,  cut  that  out!  I'm  excited,  all  right,  all  right! 
Guess  you'd  be  if  you  had  the  thoughts  I  got  goin'  'round  in 
your  head  all  the  time — but  there's  no  sense  talkin'  them  out. 
Nobody  can't  do  nothin'  for  me  now! 


54  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

THE  LADY. 
Oh,  you  mustn't  say  that! 

THE  GIRL. 
Well,  can  ye? 

THE  LADY. 
I'll  try,  if  you  will  tell  me  what  is  troubling  you. 

THE  GIRL. 
Oh,  Gawd!  She  wants  to  know  what's  troublin'  me,  she  does! 

THE  LADY. 
Can't  you  tell  me?  Perhaps  I  could  help  you. 

THE  GIRL. 
You  said  you  done  wrong  things.  What  was  they? 

THE  LADY. 
I— I  don't  know  exactly. 

THE  GIRL. 
You  don't  know? 

THE  LADY. 
Why,  I  suppose  I  could  think  of  lots  of  things,  but— 

THE  GIRL. 

She  could  "  think  of  lots  o'  things  " !    Has  to  stop  to  remember. 
Oh,  gee!    Guess  she'll  get  in, 


EXTREME  UNCTION  55 

THE  LADY. 

Oh,  please  don't  laugh  like  that!  Listen!  Whatever  you 
have  done,  no  matter  how  dreadful,  if  you  are  sorry  it  will  be 
all  right.  Don't  be  afraid. 

THE  GIRL. 
Is  that  true? 

THE  LADY. 
Yes. 

THE  GIRL. 
I  don't  believe  it. 

THE  LADY. 
It  is  true,  nevertheless. 

THE  GIRL. 
Well,  if  you  ain't  sorry? 

THE  LADY. 
But  surely  you  are — you  must  be! 

THE  GIRL. 
No,  I  ain't.  It  was  better  dead. 

THE  LADY. 
What  do  you  mean? 

THE  GIRL. 

I  tell  ye,  it  was  better  to  be  dead.  Say,  Lady — in  them  wrong 
things  you  done  you  can't  remember  did  ye — did  ye  ever  kill 
a  kid  that  hadn't  hardly  breathed?  Say,  did  ye— did  ye? 


56  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

THE  LADY. 

Oh,  oh!  What  shall  I  do?  Hattie!  Hattie!  Try  and  stop 
crying.  I'm  so  grieved  for  you.  Tell  me  what  you  wish — only 
don't  cry  so! 

THE  GIRL. 
I  ain't  sorry. 

THE  LADY. 

No,  no,  never  mind  that.  Tell  me  if  you  want  to,  tell  me — 
about  it. 

THE  GIRL. 

An'  I  ain't  sorry  for  what  cum  first — him — it  was  all  I  ever 
had  that  time,  that  little,  weeny  time! 

THE  LADY. 
Wait  a  moment — wouldn't  you  rather  have  a  clergyman? 

THE  GIRL. 

No!  There's  one  comes  'round  here.  I  don'  want  to  tell 
him  nothin*. 

THE  LADY. 
Very  well — go  on. 

THE  GIRL. 
It  was  so  little,  and  it  squawked!    It  squawked  awful! 

THE  LADY. 
Oh  don't! 


EXTREME  UNCTION  57 

THE  GIRL. 
You  don't  want  me  to  tell  ye? 

THE  LADY. 
Yes,  yes. 

THE  GIRL. 

Oh,  what's  the  use?  What's  the  use?  You  can't  do  nothin*. 
Nobody  kin.  I  ain't  sorry!  The  kid's  better  dead,  lots  better. 
It's  what  cum  after.  I'm  so  dirty!  I'm  so  dirty!  I'll  never 
get  clean!  Oh,  what's  gona  happen  when  I  die?  What's  gona 
happen?  An'  I  gotta  die  soon! 

THE  LADY. 

You  mustn't  feel  so;  you  mustn't!  God  is  kind  and  good 
and  merciful.  He  will  forgive  you.  Ask  Him  to! 

THE  GIRL. 

I  did  ask  Him  to — lots  o'  times.  It  don'  do  no  good.  I  ain't 
sorry!  Everybody  says  you  gotta  feel  sorry,  an'  I  ain't.  A 
girl  kid's  better  dead,  I  tell  ye!  That's  why  I  done  it.  I  loved 
it,  'fore  it  came,  'cause  it  was  his'n.  After  I  done  it  nothin* 
mattered — no  thin'!  So  I —  And  I  gotta  die  soon.  What's 
gona  happen? 

[During  the  preceding  the  sound  of  a  tambourine  and  singing 
has  been  heard  outside.  As  THE  GIRL  cries  out  the  last 
words  THE  LADY,  finding  no  answer,  goes  to  the  window, 
She  has  a  sudden  thought.] 


58  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

THE  LADY. 

I'll  be  back  in  a  moment!     [She  goes  out.] 

[Nothing  is  heard  bid  THE  GIRL'S  sobs  for  a  moment.     Then 

THE  LADY  ushers  in  a  SALVATION  ARMY  LASSIE,  her 

tambourine  held  tightly,  but  jingling  a  little.    She  stands 

embarrassed  by  the  foot  of  the  bed.    THE  GIRL  stares  at  her.] 

THE  GIRL. 
I  know  them  kind,  too. 

THE  LASSIE. 
Can't  I  do  something  for  you? 

THE  GIRL. 

No — not  now.    You're  a  good  sort  enough — but — I  ain't 
sorry —  I  tell  ye — I  ain't,  I  ain't! 

THE  LASSIE. 

[To  LADY.! 
What  d'  ye  want  me  for?    What  '11  I  do? 

THE  LADY. 

Couldn't  you  sing  something  brave  and  cheerful?    You  were 
singing  so  nicely  out  there. 

THE  LASSIE 
[To  GIRL.] 
Shall  I? 


EXTREME  UNCTION  59 

THE  GIRL. 
No,  they  won't  let  ye.    It  'u'd  make  a  noise. 

THE  LADY. 
Sing  it  low. 

THE  LASSIE. 

[In  a  sing-song  voice,   swaying,   half  chanting,   half  speaking.] 
Shall  we  gather  at  the  river — the  beautiful,  the  beautiful  river, 
etc. 

THE  GIRL. 

[After  trying  to  listen  for  a  stanza  or  two.] 
Oh,  cut  it  out!    I  don't  want  ye  to  sing  to  me.     I  want  ye 
to   tell   me  what's   gona   happen.    Oh,  don'    nobody  know? 
I'm  so  'fraid — so  'fraid! 

[As  her  voice  rises  the  nurse,  who  has,  unobserved,  looked  in 
during  the  singing,  enters  with  THE  DOCTOR.  He  bows 
slightly  to  THE  LADY  and  THE  LASSIE,  then  goes  quickly 
to  THE  GIRL,  putting  his  hand  on  her  forehead.] 

THE  DOCTOR. 
Why,  child,  what  troubles  you? 

THE  GIRL. 

[Clinging  to  his  hand.] 

Doctor!    Everybody  says  I  got  to  be  sorry  to  get  in.     I  ain't 
sorry,  an'  I'm  'fraid,  I'm  'fraid. 

THE  DOCTOR. 
To  get  in  where? 


60  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

THE  GIRL. 
Heaven,  where  you'll  be  happy. 

THE  DOCTOR. 

That  is  very  interesting.    How  do  you  suppose  they  found 
that  out?    How  do  they  know,  I  mean? 

THE  LADY. 
Doctor,  I  didn't  tell  her  that. 

THE  DOCTOR. 

Didn't  you?    She  seems  strangely  excited.     [He  seats  himself 
by  the  bed.]    Come,  child,  let's  talk  about  it. 

[He  motions  to  the  nurse  that  she  is  not  needed.  She  goes  out. 
THE  SALVATION  ARMY  LASSIE  makes  an  awkward  little 
bow  and  gets  herself  out.  THE  LADY  stands  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed  listening  for  a  few  moments,  then  slips  quietly  out.] 

THE  DOCTOR. 

Now,  tell  me  what  is  on  your  mind.    But  try  and  stop  crying 
and  speak  plainly,  for  I  want  to  understand  what  you  say. 

THE  GIRL. 
I'm  gona  die,  ain't  I? 

THE  DOCTOR. 
Yes. 

THE  GIRL. 
When? 


EXTREME  UNCTION  61 

THE  DOCTOR. 
I  don't  know. 

THE  GIRL. 
Soon? 

THE  DOCTOR. 
Yes. 

THE  GIRL. 
How  soon?    Tomorrow? 

THE  DOCTOR. 
No,  not  tomorrow.    Perhaps  in  a  month,  perhaps  longer. 

THE  GIRL. 
Will  I  get  sorry  'fore  I  go? 

THE  DOCTOR. 

How  can  I  tell?  But  what  does  it  matter?  Why  do  you 
want  to  be  sorry  especially?  What  good  would  it  do?  It  is  all 
passed,  isn't  it?  Nothing  can  change  that. 

THE  GIRL. 
But  I  gotta  be — to  get  in. 

THE  DOCTOR. 
You  seem  very  sure  on  that  point. 

THE  GIRL. 
But  everybody  says  I  gotta  be. 


62  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

THE  DOCTOK. 
What  is  the  use  saying  it  or  thinking  it  when  nobody  knows? 

THE  GIRL. 
What  you  sayin'? 

THE  DOCTOR. 

You  and  I  can  believe  differently  if  we  want  to.  But  why 
in  the  world  should  you  be  asking  me  all  these  hard  questions? 
I've  never  been  to  heaven,  have  I?  I  don't  know  whether  you 
have  to  be  sorry  to  get  in  or  not.  How  do  you  suppose  they 
found  all  that  out? 

THE  GIRL. 
But  ain't  I  gotta  be  punished  somewhere  till  I  git  sorry? 

THE  DOCTOR. 
Do  you  remember  the  other  night  when  the  pain  was  so  bad? 

THE  GIRL. 
Yep. 

THE  DOCTOR. 

And  I  told  you  you  would  have  to  bear  it,  that  I  could  do 
nothing  for  you,  and  that  you  must  be  quiet,  not  to  disturb  the 
others? 

THE  GIRL. 
Oh,  don't  I  remember! 


EXTREME  UNCTION  63 

THE  DOCTOR. 

I  guess  that's  about  enough  punishment  for  one  little  girl. 
You've  been  pretty  unhappy  lately,  haven't  you,  with  the  pain 
and  the  terrible  thoughts?  I  think  it's  about  time  something 
else  turned  up  for  you  that  would  be  nicer,  don't  you? 

THE  GIRL. 
Turned  up? 

THE  DOCTOR. 

Yes,  something  that  would  make  up  for  all  this.  Do  you 
know,  child,  as  I've  gone  through  these  wards  day  after  day 
'tending  to  all  you  sick  folks  I've  about  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  there  must  be — something  nicer — 

THE  GIRL. 
Tell  me  more  about  it. 

THE  DOCTOR. 

Well,  now — there's  another  queer  question.  Didn't  I  tell  you 
I  don't  know  anything  to  tell?  I've  never  been  there.  I  should 
think  you  would  have  found  out  a  little  something,  since  you're 
planning  to  go  so  soon.  But  no,  I  don't  suppose  you  know 
much  more  than  the  rest  of  us.  And  when  you  get  there  you 
will  probably  forget  all  about  me  and  how  much  I'd  like  to 
know  what's  happening  to  my  little  patient.  No  use,  I  suppose, 
asking  you  to  tie  a  red  string  on  your  finger  and  say,  "That's 
to  send  Dr.  Carroll  a  little  message."  Is  there  any  way,  do 
you  think  you  could  remember? 


64  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

THE  GIRL. 


You're  kiddin'  me! 


THE  DOCTOR. 


Indeed  I  am  not.  I  long  to  know  with  all  my  heart,  and  I 
suppose  it  will  be  years  and  years  before  I  do.  Why,  just  think, 
you — you,  are  going  to  have  a  great  adventure.  You  are  going 
on  a  journey  to  a  far  country  where  you'll  find  out  lots  of  things, 
and  here  am  I,  jogging  along  up  and  down,  to  and  fro,  between 
my  office  and  this  hospital,  and  wondering  and  wondering  and 
wondering!  What  a  lucky  little  girl  you  are! 

THE  GIRL. 
And  I  don't  have  to  be  sorry — to  git  in? 

THE  DOCTOR. 

Didn't  I  tell  you  you  were  going  soon,  anyway?  You  can 
be  sorry  if  you  want  to — but  I  think  it  is  more  interesting  to 
dream  about  the  strange  things  there  will  be  to  discover  at  the 
end  of  the  journey. 

THE  GIRL. 

Will  there  be  gates  of  gold  that  open  wide,  and  angels  standin' 
by  with  shinin'  wings? 

THE  DOCTOR. 

Wouldn't  you  like  to  know?  And  so  would  I.  You  mustn't 
forget  to  send  that  message.  Will  you?  Do  be  careful  to  be 
accurate  and  try  to  speak  distinctly.  You  know  that  a  great 


EXTREME  UNCTION  65 

many  wise  men  have  promised  to  send  messages  back,  yet  all 
that  seems  to  come  are  foolish  words.  If  you  will  look  at 
everything  carefully  and  find  a  way  of  telling  me,  I'll  write 
it  down  for  all  the  world  to  ponder.  Oh — then  we  should  really 
know  something — not  just  be  groping — groping — groping  in 
the  dark.  If  you  only  could,  if  you  only  could!  I  wonder — 
[In  his  turn  he  gazes  at  her  intently,  then  rises  abruptly.]  Well, 
child,  I  must  go  on.  Shall  I  teach  you  a  few  questions  before 
you  go,  so  you'll  be  sure  and  find  out  for  me  the  most  important 
things? 

THE  GIRL. 
Oh,  Doctor! 

THE  DOCTOR. 

You'd  like  to  do  something  for  me,  wouldn't  you,  child? 
[THE  GIRL  reaches  out  for  his  hand  and  kisses  it  humbly,  then 
gazes  at  him.] 

THE  DOCTOR. 

Well,  that  would  be  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  world, 
only  you  must  be  very,  very  careful,  and  you  must  do  a  lot  of 
thinking  before  you  go,  about  what  I've  said.  It  is  important 
to  understand.  Don't  waste  any  time  thinking  about  what  is 
I,  will  you? 


THE  GIRL. 
No,  Doctor. 

THE  DOCTOR. 

We  must  talk  it  all  over.    There  aren't  many  people  I  could 
trust  to  remember  exactly  all  the  things  I  want  to  know.    But 


66  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

you  can  if  you  try  hard.  [He  touches  the  bell;  the  nurse  appears.} 
Now,  Miss  Bryant,  Miss  Hattie  and  I  have  several  important 
things  to  discuss  and  there  isn't  much  time  left,  so  if  she  wants 
me  at  any  time  call  me  and  I'll  come.  And  I  think  while  she 
has  so  much  thinking  on  hand  about  what  I'm  asking  her  to 
do  for  me,  she  had  better  not  see  other  visitors.  You  don't 
mind,  do  you? 

THE  GIRL. 

No,  no!  I  don'  want  'em!  Doctor,  when  will  it  come? 
Doctor,  will  I  know  soon? 

THE  DOCTOR. 

Soon,  I  think;  very  soon.  [He  takes  her  hand  a  second,  then 
goes  out,  motioning  the  nurse  to  precede  him.] 

THE  GIRL. 

Soon!  He  said  it  would  be  very  soon— and  I'm  so  tired! 
I'd  like  something  nicer.  [She  settles  herself  with  a  little  sigh, 
and  falls  asleep.] 


CURTAIN. 


THE   LETTER 


Played  for  the  first  time  on  August  18  and  19,  1915,  by 
Mr.  CHAS.  ATKINSON,  Mr.  ERNST  VON  AMMON,  and 
Mr.  JOHN  ROOT. 


THE  LETTER. 

CHARACTERS: 

HORACE  TANNER. 
JOHN  ROBERTS. 
BELL-BOY. 

TIME:  Midnight  of  a  summer  night.    Present  day. 

SCENE:    Writing-room  of  a  club.    Entrances  at  back  and  right. 

When  the  curtain  rises  the  two  men  are  seated  on  opposite  sides 
of  the  room,  facing  away  from  each  other.  HORACE  TANNER 
is  occupied  in  opening,  throwing  away  or  laying  aside  a  pile 
of  mail  which  is  on  the  writing-table  before  him.  JOHN 
ROBERTS  is  writing  a  letter,  which  he  folds,  seals  and  addresses. 
Finding  himself  without  a  stamp,  he  leaves  the  room,  back. 
Neither  man  is  conscious  of  the  other's  presence.  TANNER 
starts  to  answer  a  note,  refers  to  a  letter  he  has  put  aside, 
then  lets  his  pen  drop  and  stares  in  front  of  him  listlessly. 
He  is  a  man  between  thirty-five  and  forty  with  a  clean-cut 
fine  face.  The  jaw  is  square,  the  eyes  and  brow  those  of  a 
dreamer. 
[The  BELL-BOY  enters.] 

BELL-BOY. 
This  Mr.  Tanner,  sir? 

TANNER. 
Yes.    What  is  it? 


70  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

BELL-BOY. 
Letter  for  you,  sir.    [Holds  out  a  tray  with  a  long  sealed  envelope.] 

TANNER. 
I  got  my  mail  at  the  desk  when  I  arrived.   Where  was  this? 

BELL-BOY. 

It  is  a  registered  letter,  sir.    The  clerk  always  keeps  'em  in 
the  safe. 

TANNER. 

I  see.    Thank  you. 

[The  BELL-BOY  goes  out.  TANNER  opens  the  envelope  slowly, 
after  looking  curiously  at  the  handwriting.  Inside  is 
another  envelope  of  which  the  seal  has  been  broken.  Around 
this  is  a  half-sheet  of  note-paper.  At  the  handwriting  on  the 
second  envelope  TANNER  gives  a  start.  He  glances  at  the 
note,  then  throws  it  aside  and  becomes  absorbed  in  the 
contents  of  the  inner  envelope.  The  letter  he  reads  is  not 
long,  perhaps  four  or  five  pages.  He  turns  it  over  and  over, 
trying  to  find  more.  He  has  laid  the  envelope,  the  one  on 
which  the  writing  has  startled  him,  beside  him  on  the  desk. 
As  he  reads,  leaning  forward,  the  envelope  is  pushed  by  his 
elbow  onto  the  floor  and  lies  there  unnoticed.  TANNER  is 
so  absorbed  he  does  not  notice  or  look  up  as  ROBERTS  re- 
enters  from  back.  ROBERTS  is  a  man  of  address  and 
strength.  His  mouth  has  set  lines  around  it.  He  is, 
perhaps,  forty-five  to  fifty.  He  is  dressed  in  mourning  and 
looks  careworn.  As  he  enters,  a  lighted  cigar  is  in  his  hand, 
but  it  is  soon  put  down  and  forgotten.  He  thinks  he  recog- 


THE  LETTER  71 

nizes  TANNER,  then  sees  he  is  mistaken.  He  is  about  to 
return  to  his  desk  when  his  eye  falls  on  the  envelope  on  the 
floor.  He  picks  it  up  courteously,  saying,  "I  beg  your 
pardon."  TANNER  does  not  hear  him.  As  ROBERTS 
places  the  envelope  on  the  table  he  sees  the  handwriting. 
He  is  plainly  amazed  and  glances  sharply  at  TANNER,  who 
is  still  re-reading  the  letter.] 

ROBERTS. 

That  is  my  wife's  handwriting.  She  is  dead.  The  name  on 
the  envelope,  James  Douglas,  is  that  of  a  friend  of  hers  and  of 
mine.  You  have  a  letter  there  in  the  same  handwriting.  Where 
did  you  get  it? 

[TANNER  holds  the  letter  tightly  in  his  left  hand  and  makes  no 
answer.] 

ROBERTS. 
Where  did  you  get  it? 

TANNER. 
I  decline  to  answer. 

ROBERTS. 

The  letter  does  not  belong  to  you. 

[For  answer  TANNER  folds  it,  puts  it  in  his  pocket,  rises  and 
bows.] 

TANNER. 
I  will  bid  you  good-night. 


72  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

ROBERTS. 

Not  until  you  have  explained  how  you  come  to  have  my 
wife's  letter  in  your  possession,  and  why  you  were  so  absorbed 
in  it  as  not  to  hear  me  when  I  spoke. 

TANNER. 

Why  should  I  answer  when  you  have  no  right  to  ask  me  the 
question? 

ROBERTS. 
No  right!    Was  she  not  my  wife? 

TANNER. 
No. 

ROBERTS. 
How  do  you  know  that? 

TANNER. 
Again  I  decline  to  answer. 

ROBERTS. 
Did  you  know  my  wife? 

TANNER. 
You  mean  Mrs.  Roberts?    Yes. 

ROBERTS. 
You  know  the  person  to  whom  the  letter  is  directed? 


THE  LETTER  73 

TANNER. 
No. 

ROBERTS. 
Yet  you  will  not  explain? 

TANNER. 
I  see  no  obligation  to  do  so 

ROBERTS. 
Was  the  letter  sent  you? 

TANNER. 
Presumably,  or  given.    One  does  not  steal  letters. 

ROBERTS. 

Can  you  not  understand  how  it  is  that  I  should  feel  I  had  the 
right  to  ask  an  explanation? 

TANNER. 

Well,  to  be  frank,  I  cannot.  In  my  code,  which  no  doubt 
is  peculiar,  no  one  has  rights  over  another,  even  when  that 
other  is  living — when  he  is  dead  still  less.  That  the  woman 
who  bore  your  name  wrote  a  letter  to  a  friend,  of  which  you 
were  ignorant,  is  a  sufficient  reason  for  me  to  desire  to  protect 
its  contents  now  from  your  curiosity.  [TANNER  gathers  up  his 
papers.] 


74  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

ROBERTS. 

Admitting  that  I  have  not  the  right,  have  you?  If  you  have, 
how  came  you  by  it? 

TANNER. 

You  forget  that  I  answer  only  such  of  your  questions  as  I 
choose  to  answer.  I  think  we  had  better  say  good-night. 
[He  moves  towards  the  door,  right.] 

ROBERTS. 

Wait!  You  have  convinced  me  that  the  question  of  rights 
is  not  one  to  raise  now.  May  there  not  be  other  questions  in 
volved,  of  kindness,  of  consideration,  of  humanity?  If  I  ask 
you,  to  give  me  easement  of  pain,  ask  it  as  one  human  being 
in  distress  cries  out  to  another,  what  will  you  say  then? 

TANNER. 

Merely  that  in  this  particular  instance  the  justice  of  with 
holding  is  more  important  than  the  doubtful  "kindness,"  as 
you  call  it,  of  giving. 

[ROBERTS  turns  away  and  bows  his  head,  then  sits  down  at 
the  writing-table  and  tries  to  write.  His  distress  is  so 
genuine  that  for  the  first  time  TANNER  shows  an  interest  in 
him.] 

TANNER. 

This  talk  is  becoming  painful  to  us  both.  It  had  better  be 
ended.  You  ask  information  which  I  cannot  give.  Let  the 
matter  end  there. 


THE  LETTED  75 

ROBERTS. 
Will  you  tell  me  your  name? 

TANNER. 
I  have  no  reason  for  not  doing  so.    Horace  Tanner. 

ROBERTS. 

[Glancing  at  him  as  if  the  name  were  familiar.] 
You  are  Horace  Tanner,  and  you  have  in  your  possession  a 
letter  from  my  wife  addressed  to  James  Douglas?  Mr.  Tanner, 
you  and  I  have  met  under  extraordinary  circumstances,  and 
spoken  together  as  men  speak  once  or  twice  in  a  lifetime.  It  is 
not  possible  for  us  to  part  now — that  is,  it  is  not  possible  for  me, 
with  no  further  speech.  I  acknowledge  that  I  exceeded  my 
rights  in  demanding  an  explanation.  I  want  to  win  your 
acquiescence  by  another  method.  Evidently  you  know  some 
thing  of  what  lay  between  my  wife  and  myself.  Until  tonight 
I  thought  no  one  knew.  [A  pause.]  I  will  tell  you  the  story  if 
you  wish.  Shall  I? 

[TANNER  walks  backwards  and  forwards  behind  ROBERTS, 
who  is  seated.  It  is  evidently  a  difficult  decision.  ROBERTS 
is  not  looking  at  him.  ROBERTS'  eyes  are  downcast,  as  he 
is  embarrassed  with  his  own  offer.] 

ROBERTS. 
[Over  his  shoulder.] 

If  you  say  no,  there  is  nothing  left  but  to  bid  each  other  good 
night.  In  that  case,  I  shall  have  an  additional  weight  to  carry, 
when  it  often  seems  to  me  the  one  I  have  is  too  heavy  to  be 
borne. 


?6  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

TANNER. 
Go  on — speak. 

[There  is  a  pause  while  each  man  seems  to  gather  himself 
together.    TANNER  seats  himself,  right  desk.] 

ROBERTS. 

It  is  very  extraordinary  for  me  to  find  myself  bidden  to 
speak  at  my  own  solicitation,  of  matters  which  a  half-hour 
since  I  should  have  said  would  be  forever  hidden,  yet  when 
one  has  upon  one's  mind,  day  and  night,  waking  and  sleeping, 
one  all-pervading  thought,  silence  becomes  an  unbearable  tor 
ment.  Under  such  circumstances,  even  the  dumb  must  speak. 

TANNER. 
I  understand — go  on. 

ROBERTS. 

In  spite  of  our  grim  words  just  now,  demanding  and  denying, 
something  in  you  makes  me  willing  to  speak.  May  I  ask  you 
one  question? 

TANNER. 
Yes,  with  the  provision  I  need  not  answer  it. 

ROBERTS. 

You  would  not  allow  me  to  use  the  words  "my  wife."  Did 
your  knowledge  come  from  her? 


THE  LETTER  77 

TANNER. 

During  the  time  I  knew  her,  you  mean? 
[ROBERTS  bows  his  head  in  assent.] 

TANNER. 
No,  it  did  not. 

ROBERTS. 

[Springing  from  his  chair,  threateningly.] 
What  was  there  between  you?    Tell  me! 

TANNER. 
To  use  your  own  term,  you  have  no  right  to  ask  me  that. 

ROBERTS. 

O  God,  don't  hurl  that  at  me  over  and  over  again.  [He  goes 
to  back  of  stage.] 

TANNER. 
You  were  going  to  tell  me  a  story? 

ROBERTS. 

Yes,  I  was,  and  I  will.  Forgive  me — I'll  not  lose  my  self- 
control  again.  [There  is  a  short  pause  during  which  ROBERTS 
makes  an  effort  for  calmness,  and  TANNER  watches  him  quietly.] 
We  were  married  eighteen  years  ago.  She  was  nineteen,  I 
thirty.  We  had  known  each  other  only  a  few  months.  She 
cared  for  me  then — I  know  she  did — I  know  it.  For  a  few  years 
there  was  happiness.  There  were  the  boys.  She  seemed 


?s          PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

absorbed  in  them.  They  were  sturdy  chaps.  Then  they  went 
to  school.  That  was  five  years  ago.  It  was  ghastly — not 
having  them.  For  a  long  time  we  had  not  been  much  together. 
I  never  asked  myself  if  she  was  happy.  She  seemed  so.  I 
suppose  I  wasn't  particularly,  but  I  hadn't  time  to  think  about 
it.  I  was  away  a  good  deal.  We  never  seemed  to  have  much  to 
say  to  each  other.  She  told  me  once  that  never  in  our  whole  mar 
ried  life  had  I  asked  her  what  she  was  thinking  about.  It 
only  came  back  to  me,  afterwards — what  she  meant,  I  mean. 
I  suppose  she  was  lonely.  [TANNER  bows  his  head  in  acqui 
escence.  ROBERTS  looks  at  him  and  sees  he  understands.]  Well, 
after  the  boys  went  away  there  came  a  kind  of  crisis.  Nothing 
definite.  We  never  said  anything  to  each  other  about  our  own 
situation.  Gradually  we  had  become  entirely  separated.  I 
thought  I  had  better  get  away.  A  friend  was  going  to  Italy, 
so  I  proposed  to  join  him.  She  urged  my  going,  saying  I  needed 
a  holiday  and  that  she  was  perfectly  well.  I  was  anxious  at 
first,  but  her  letters  came  regularly  and  sounded  cheerful. 
I  stayed  abroad  almost  a  year,  first  in  Italy  and  Greece,  then 
to  India,  then  back  to  Italy.  I  was  in  London,  wondering 
whether  to  come  home  or  go  back  to  the  continent,  when  I 
heard,  not  from  her,  but  from  an  acquaintance  I  ran  into,  that 
she  was  ill.  A  great  longing  came  over  me  to  see  her — to  take 
care  of  her.  Why  had  she  not  told  me?  What  was  the  matter? 
I  cabled,  and  sailed  at  once.  A  month  after  I  got  home  she 
died. 

TANNER. 

[After  waiting  a  moment.] 

I  think  I  can  understand.    It's  a  pretty  tragic  story,  and,  I 
imagine,  not  an  uncommon  one.    I  fancy  among  people  of  our 


THE  LETTER  79 

class,  silence  causes  more  trouble  than  speech.  May  I  ask 
you  a  question?  Did  you  have  any  intimate  conversation  with 
her  before  she  died — about  the  past,  I  mean? 

ROBERTS. 

Yes,  a  little.  I  think  she  knew  how  I  loved  her.  When 
I  got  home  she  said  she  had  been  ill,  but  was  better.  Shortly 
after  she  had  a  trifling  operation  from  which  she  didn't  rally. 
She  seemed  to  want  to  have  me  with  her — but — I  couldn't 
hold  her — it  was  too  late — too  late! 

TANNER. 
A  strange  nature! 

ROBERTS. 

When  I  began  to  speak  it  was  with  the  intention  and  hope 
of  making  you  do  the  same.  As  I  think  over  the  past,  the  diffi 
culties  she  must  have  met  are  cleaf  to  me.  I  have  been  very 
dull  and  blind.  Speaking  about  these  things  has  been  a  relief. 
Everything  seems  plainer  to  me  now.  Mr.  Tanner,  I  want  to 
say  this  to  you,  if  you  knew  her,  if  your  friendship  made  her 
happier,  why,  I  am  glad. 

TANNER. 

I  did  know  her,  the  winter  you  were  abroad.  We  were  a 
great  deal  together.  It  was  a  rare  friendship,  a  peculiarly 
vivid  and  stimulating  one  for  me.  She  had  a  rich  nature  full 
of  surprises,  and  perhaps  I  may  have  drawn  from  her  more  than 
had  been  demanded  before.  I  am  a  taxing  friend,  Mr.  Roberts. 
[ROBERTS  rises.] 


80  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

ROBERTS. 
I  have  given  you  my  confidence,  Mr.  Tanner. 

TANNER. 

And  I  will  be  equally  frank.  If  you  still  wish  it,  I  will  read 
the  letter  to  you,  but  I  will  warn  you  first  that  you  will  find  it 
extraordinarily  painful. 

ROBERTS. 
That  doesn't  matter  now.    Read  it,  please. 

TANNER. 

[Taking  out  the  letter  from  his  pocket.] 

I  have  never  received  anything  in  my  life  that  has  touched 
me  more  profoundly.  I  am  awed  by  it.  I  feel  as  if  I  should 
touch  the  very  paper  with  reverence. 

ROBERTS. 

May  I  have  it?  [ROBERTS  stands  with  his  back  to  TANNER  and 
with  his  arms  folded.] 

TANNER. 

[Unfolds  the  letter  slowly.] 

The  letter  reached  me  only  tonight  by  registered  mail.  I  have 
been  away.  There  was  a  note  from  James  Douglas.  [Reads.] 

DEAR  MR.  TANNER: 

I  am  discharging  a  sacred  obligation  in  sending  you  the  enclosed. 
I  need  not  tell  you  that  the  confidence  given  me  is  equally  sacred. 

Yours  truly, 

JAMES  DOUGLAS. 


THE  LETTER  81 

ROBERTS. 
I  understand— go  on. 

TANNER. 

[Reading.] 

Oh  Jim,  dear  old  Jim — I  am  so  wildly  happy  tonight  I  must 
talk  to  someone,  and  you're  such  a  good  friend!  If  you  were 
only  here!  Such  a  wonderful  thing  has  happened  to  me,  Jim — 
such  a  strange,  exalting,  beautiful  thing.  I  did  not  know  love 
was  like  this — I  did  not  know  anyone  could  be  so  happy — 
[TANNER  glances  at  ROBERTS,  uncertain  whether  he  can  go  on, 
then  continues]  for  I'm  in  love,  Jim  dear,  in  love,  like  a  girl  of 
eighteen.  There,  I've  said  it  and  I  dare  say  it  again — I'm 
in  love.  I  love  him!  I  love  him!  I  love  him!  and  if  I  must  suffer 
all  the  rest  of  my  life,  still  I  shall  have  known  what  love  meant, 
for  I  never  have,  Jim — never. 

I  turn  to  you,  my  old  friend,  because  I  have  no  one  else, 
no  one  to  whom  I  can  speak,  and  that  which  is  in  my  heart  will 
not  be  held  in.  Oh,  I  know  it's  mad,  wild  folly.  It  will  mean 
dreadful  pain  somewhere  ahead — but  tonight,  tonight  is  mine! 
and  I  can  fling  out  my  arms  to  the  stars  and  sing  and  shout  with 
the  joy  and  the  glory  and  the  beauty*  We  have  been  together 
all  day,  talking,  talking,  talking,  there  was  so  much  to  say, 
and  now  I  can  hear  his  grave  voice,  his  sudden  laugh — I  can 
feel  the  pressure  of  his  hand  as  he  said  good-night.  He  is 
coming  again  tomorrow  and  we  are  going  to  take  our  lunch 
and  go  for  a  long  tramp,  and  for  a  day  the  world,  the  whole 
wide  world  will  be  ours. 

Oh  Jim,  I  think  I've  been  waiting  for  him  all  my  life.  I 
didn't  even  know  I  was  waiting — I  didn't  know  I  lived  in  fog 
and  mist  and  darkness  until  this  great  golden  light  burst  in. 


82  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

Of  course  there's  pain  to  come — but  I'll  bear  it,  Jim.  I  can, 
because  I've  had  these  two  days,  and  I  won't  cry  out.  I  can 
be  very  still.  I  know  there  can  be  nothing  ahead,  nothing, 
but  I  shall  always  be  stronger,  bigger,  wiser  and  more  tender 
because  I  have  known  this.  Oh  Jim,  I  have  been  so  lonely! 
The  long  days,  the  long  nights  alone,  always  alone.  They  have 
been  hard  to  bear.  I  shall  go  on  with  my  life,  and,  Jim — no 
one  but  you  shall  know  what  has  come  to  be. 

Shall  I  send  this  letter?  I  don't  even  know  where  you  are — 
I  don't  think  I've  been  really  writing  to  you.  I've  been  writing 
to  him.  I  wrote  "Jim,"  and  I  meant  "Horace."  I  see  that 
now — but  he  must  never  know,  he  must  not.  It  would  make 
things  too  difficult,  and  that  is  all  that  you  shall  know  about 
him — just  his  name,  but  if  I  should  die  there  would  be  no  harm 
in  his  knowing  then,  would  there?  I  think  he  would  be  glad. 
I'll  put  the  address  in  this  little  envelope  and  seal  it  and  if  I 
should  die  send  him  this  letter.  It  is  more  his  than  yours. 
[ROBERTS  has  listened  without  a  sound,  scarcely  a  change 
of  expression — motionless.  There  is  a  pause.] 

ROBERTS. 

I  am  glad — she  had — those — two  days.  They  weren't  much, 
were  they?  And  I  never  knew,  I  never  knew — anything!  Yet 
I  loved  her.  She  was  the  only  woman  that  ever  came  into  my 
life.  She  knew  that — at  the  end — knew  how  deeply  I  loved 
her,  I  mean.  She  seemed  glad  to  know  it.  She  asked  me 
once  if  I  had  been  happy,  if  she  had  made  me  happy — asked  it 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  mine.  When  I  said  yes  she  dropped 
back  on  the  pillow.  I  remember  it  so  well,  and  I  didn't  know, 
I  didn't  know!  [He  sits  down.]  Oh  how  blind,  how  blind! 


THE  LETTER  83 

You  must  have  loved  her  dearly.  If  I  had  only  known! 
[TANNER  is  silent.]  You  did  love  her?  [TANNER  makes  no  re 
ply.]  Man!  you  did  love  her? 

TANNER. 
We  were  great  friends — 

ROBERTS. 

Yes,  yes,  of  course,  but— after  that  letter  was  written— what 
happened? 

TANNER. 

We  saw  each  other  often.  I  told  you  she  was  a  wonderful 
friend. 

ROBERTS. 

But— but  you  loved  her,  [rises]  didn't  you?  She  had  a  little 
happiness?  Tell  me!  Tell  me!  I  must  know. 

TANNER. 

What  is  love?  We  had  some  golden  days  together,  then  I 
had  to  go  away — I  heard  of  her  death  when  I  was  on  the  other 
side  of  the  world.  As  I  told  you,  this  letter  reached  me  only 
tonight.  I  found  it  here. 

ROBERTS. 

You  never  knew  that  she  loved  you? 

TANNER. 

Sometimes  I  guessed — but  it  seemed  so  incredible — I  couldn't 
believe —  We  never  spoke — 


84  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

ROBERTS. 
Give  me  the  letter. 

TANNER. 
No. 

ROBERTS. 
You  shall.    It  is  not  yours —    You  did  not  love  her. 

TANNER. 
It  is  mine.    It's  a  wonderful  letter —    It  is  precious  to  me. 

ROBERTS. 
Why? 

TANNER. 

You  forget  that  I  am  a  novelist. 

[The  two  men  stand  facing  each  other.] 


CURTAIN. 


TEMPERAMENT 

A  MUSICAL  TRAGEDY  IN  Two  SCENES 


Played  for  the  first  time  on  October  25, 1915,  by  Mr.  BEN 
JAMIN  CARPENTER,  Mrs.  CHARLES  ATKINSON,  and  Mrs. 
ARTHUR  ALDIS. 


TEMPERAMENT. 

A  MUSICAL  TRAGEDY  IN  Two  SCENES. 

CHARACTERS: 

HUGH  IRWIN,  a  Musician. 
ANNABELLE  IRWIN,  his  wife. 
GLADYS  HUNTINGTON,  an  Actress. 

TIME:    The  present. 

SCENE  I :  Library  of  the  Irwins'  house  in  the  country,  simply  and 
tastefully  furnished.  Black  and  white  and  rose  idea — one 
blue  jar,  etc.  A  piano  closed  and  covered  with  an  em 
broidery — flowers  about.  An  air  of  comfort  and  dainty 
luxury.  The  time  is  ten  o'clock  of  a  winter's  evening.  A 
wood  fire  crackles  behind  bright  brasses. 

When  the  curtain  rises  ANNABELLE  is  seated  by  the  fire  under  a  rose- 
shaded  lamp,  sewing.  Now  she  is  plump  and  charming.  Later 
on  she  will  be  too  stout.  She  holds  up  a  child's  frock  of  light- 
blue  material  and  examines  it  critically,  then  pounces  on 
an  unfinished  spot  and  sets  to  work.  HUGH  IRWIN  on  the 
other  side  of  the  room  has  been  reading  "  The  Nation."  He 
puts  it  down  once  or  twice  and  regards  ANNABELLE  over  his  eye 
glasses  as  if  desiring  to  speak,  in  fact  he  gets  as  far  as  opening 
his  mouth,  but,  seeing  her  preoccupation,  gives  it  up  and 
attacks  "The  Nation"  with  renewed  determination.  Finally 
he  slaps  it  down, 


88  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

HUGH. 
Why  in  thunder  don't  you  say  something? 

ANNABELLE. 

[With  five  pins  between  her  lips.] 
Haven't  anything  to  say.    Why  don't  you? 

HUGH. 
Can't  you  make  up  something? 

ANNABELLE. 

[Pinning  intently.] 

In  a  minute!  In  a  minute!  This  is  so  puzzling!  Now  I 
thought  I  had  the  front  part  of  that  yoke —  [Her  voice  trails 
off  in  a  soliloquy  about  the  intricacies  of  little  girls'  frocks.  Finally 
with  a  "ha"  of  satisfaction  she  lays  it  in  her  lap  and  comes  to.] 
What  was  that  you  said,  dear?  Make  up  something!  What 
a  funny  idea!  You're  just  like  baby  Gertrude!  What  do  you 
want  me  to  say?  I  can't  think  of  anything.  [She  looks  long 
ingly  at  the  frock  and  sneaks  in  another  pin.] 

HUGH. 
You  might  tell  me  my  faults. 

ANNABELLE. 

Your  faults?  Why,  my  dear!  [Pins  more  happily  and 
frankly.]  You  haven't  any!  At  least  if  you  have  I  don't  see 
them.  [Her  voice  indicates  she  is  talking  with  the  top  of  her  mind.] 


TEMPERAMENT  89 

HUGH. 

Good  Lord!  [He  takes  up  "The  Nation"  again,  then  drops 
it.]  You  mean  I  have  so  many  you  can't  be  bothered  trying 
to  enumerate  them? 

ANNABELLE. 

No,  no,  not  at  all.  Let  me  see.  Sometimes,  oh  very  rarely, 
but  just  sometimes,  I've  thought  if  you  could  be  a  little  tidier — 
not  drop  everything  about,  anywhere;,  and  then  sometimes, 
since  you're  asking  me,  if  I  could  know  within  an  hour  or  so 
when  you  are  coming  to  meals  it  would  be  a  little  more  con 
venient,  in  the  housekeeping,  you  know.  I  mean,  of  course, 
nicer  for  you;  I  don't  mind.  That's  all  I  can  think  of — and 
of  course  I  wouldn't  have  said  anything  unless  you'd  asked. 
Oh,  Hugh,  I'm  afraid  I've  been  unkind.  Have  I?  Oh  do  say 
I  haven't!  It  doesn't  matter  much  about  the  meals,  truly  it 
doesn't;  just  on  your  account,  that's  all. 


HUGH. 

Always  on  my  account!  Always  fussing  about  me!  Good 
Lord!  haven't  you  got  any  opinions  of  your  own?  Don't  you 
ever  think  of  anything  more  interesting  than  what  to  get  for 
my  dinner?  Great  Scott! 

ANNABELLE. 

But,  Hugh,  it  makes  me  so  happy  to  think  about  what  you'd 
like  for  your  dinner!  I  know  I  have  lots  of  faults,  yes,  of 
course  I  must  have,  but  I  do  try  to  be  a  good  housekeeper,  and 
I  think  I  am.  What  other  faults  have  I  got? 


90  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

HUGH. 

Hm!    Faults!    I    guess    perhaps    it's    your    virtues,    then! 

There  are  too  many  of  them.    They  stick  out  all  over  you  like 

pins  on  the  pink  pin-cushion  in  the  guest-room.     In  the  first 

place,  I'd  like  to  know  why  you  don't  grow  old.    You're  too 

darn  good-looking.    You're  just  as  soft  and  pink  and  white  and 

dimpled  as  when  I  married  you  ten  years  ago.     It's  outrageous! 

[ANNABELLE  picks  up  the  frock  and  purrs  softly  up  at  him 

with  an  adoring  smile.] 

ANNABELLE. 
Go  on. 

HUGH. 

In  the  second  place,  you  make  me  too  damn  comfortable. 
My  clothes  are  always  brushed  and  laid  out  just  right.  If  I 
don't  want  to  dress,  they  vanish.  Dinner  is  always  ready  any 
time,  hot  and  delicious  and  too  much  of  it!  Other  people's 
cooks  leave,  but  ours  are  marvels  and  stick.  There's  never 
a  sound  in  the  house  when  I'm  composing  or  practising.  I 
never  know  when  the  piano-tuner  comes,  but  the  piano  is  always 
perfect.  You  never  ask  for  more  allowance,  and  the  children 
never  howl.  But  what— what  about  me?  It's  awful!  I'm 
getting  fat!  And  my  music!  It's  getting  fat,  too.  It  waddles 
and  clucks  and  cackles  like  a  stuffed  goose.  And  my  soul, 
it's  growing  fat — too  fat  to  soar.  Oh,  it's  killing  me — it's 
killing  me! 

ANNABELLE. 

[Taking  all  the  pins  out  of  her  mouth.] 
Hugh!    are  you  serious?    I  think  your  music  is  perfectly 
beautiful.    You  know  I  do, 


TEMPERAMENT  91 

HUGH. 

Perfectly  serious.  I'm  stifled,  I  tell  you.  I'm  gasping  for 
air.  You  smother  me  with  comfort  and  ease  and  adoration. 
I'm  dying  of  it,  and,  what's  worse,  the  heart,  the  core,  the  essence 
of  me,  the  music  I  might  have  written!  It's  dead  too!  Oh, 
it's  awful,  awful!  [He  paces  the  room  like  a  caged  tiger.] 


ANNABELLE. 

[Watching  him  for  a  while.] 

I  see,  I  see  it  all,  and  I've  been  trying  so  hard  for  ten  years 
to  make  you  comfortable!  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before  you 
didn't  want  to  be  comfortable?  And  what  do  you  want  me  to 
do  now?  I'll  try  to  be  different.  I  won't  take  so  much  pains 
keeping  the  meals  hot  and  the  children  quiet.  I'll  do  all  I  can. 


HUGH. 

Oh  no,  no,  that  isn't  what  I  mean.  You're  adorable,  of 
course,  perfectly  adorable,  but — if  you  could,  Annabelle — I  sup 
pose  it's  absurd  to  ask — but  if  you  could  be  a  little  more  romantic, 
Annabelle — just  a  little,  you  know!  Do  you  think  you  could? 
Just  now  when  I  asked  you  to  go  out  into  the  great  still  whiteness 
out  there,  to  feel  the  sting  and  the  glory  and  the  beauty  of  the 
moonlight,  to  bathe  in  it,  go  mad  in  it,  you  said,  "What!  in 
that  slush  in  my  slippers?  Certainly  not!"  Now,  that's  what 
I  mean,  Annabelle.  [He  wanders  to  the  window  and  looks  out 
at  the  moonlighted  lawn.]  Oh,  to  think,  to  think!  I  might  have 
written  another  Moonlight  Sonata! 


92  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

ANNABELLE. 

[Folds  up  her  sewing  neatly  and  puts  it  in  the  work-basket,  picks 
the  stray  threads  off  of  her  dress,  brushes  her  skirts  and  folds 
her  hands  upon  her  stomach.] 
Hugh,  we  must  separate! 

HUGH. 
Good  Lord! 

ANNABELLE. 

We  must.  I  see  I've  made  a  great  mistake.  I  wish  you  had 
spoken  of  it  sooner,  but  that  can't  be  helped  now.  I  never 
meant  to  make  you  waddle  and  cluck.  I  never  meant  to  make 
your  soul  grow  fat,  I  never  did.  I  see  now  I'm  a  kind  of  a  barn 
yard  duck  myself.  I  suppose  you're  growing  like  me  and  that 
is  a  very  great  pity.  Hugh,  I'm  going  home  to  mother. 

HUGH. 
But,  Annabelle,  you're  crazy. 

ANNABELLE. 

Oh  no,  I'm  not.  I  always  intended  to  do  the  right  thing 
by  your  Art,  and  I'll  do  it  now. 

HUGH. 

But  I  don't  want  you  to  go  home  to  your  mother.  I  don't, 
indeed. 


TEMPERAMENT  93 

ANNABELLE. 

Very  likely  not,  just  this  minute.  You'll  feel  the  wrench 
a  good  deal,  I  dare  say,  but  you'll  be  glad  later  because  you'll 
be  terribly  uncomfortable  and  then  you'll  make  perfectly 
beautiful  music. 

HUGH. 
You  don't  mean  you're  going  for  good? 

ANNABELLE. 

Well,  I  don't  want  to  spoil  your  career,  do  I?  That's  what 
you  said  just  now,  that  your  soul  was  dying  because  the  dinner 
was  hot  —  didn't  you? 

HUGH. 
No! 

ANNABELLE. 

Oh  —  well,  perhaps  I  misunderstood,  but  I'm  sure  it  was 
something  like  that.  Oh  yes,  I  remember,  you  said  your  soul 
was  getting  fat.  I'm  awfully  sorry.  % 


HUGH. 

Annabelle,  look  here!  I  never  supposed  you'd  go  off  half- 
cock  like  this.  I  didn't  indeed.  I  don't  want  you  to  go 
home  to  your  mother.  I  just  want  you  to  —  to  come  out  in 
the  moonlight  and  be  romantic.  [He  laughs  foolishly  and 
tries  to  take  her  hand.]  To  feel  the  beauty  and  the  romance  and 
the  joy.  Can't  you  see  what  I  mean? 


94  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

ANNABELLE. 

Now,  Hugh,  let  us  have  a  clear  understanding.  You  know 
I'd  do  anything  in  the  world  for  you,  but  oh  please  listen — if 
I  walked  right  out  there  in  the  wet  in  these  slippers  my  feet 
would  feel  so  horrid  I  couldn't  be  romantic,  I  just  couldn't. 
Do  be  reasonable.  Can't  you  see  what  I  mean? 

HUGH. 

[Stalking  to  the  window  and  back  again.] 
Yes,  I  do  see,  and  what  I  see  is  that  you  have  no  imagination. 
You  had  better  go  home  to  your  mother.    We  are  not  mates. 
Good-bye.     [He  goes  out  fiercely.] 

[ANNABELLE  opens  her  mouth  as  the  curtain  falls.] 


SCENE  II:  (A  year  later.)  A  studio  apartment  in  Greenwich 
Village  in  New  York.  It  has  attractive  things  in  it,  screens, 
embroideries,  couch,  but  is  most  woefully  untidy. 

Before,  and  as  the  curtain  rises,  HUGH  is  playing  the  piano  furiously. 
Arpeggios  and  runs  dash  from  base  to  treble  and  back  again. 
Chords  crash  like  thunder.  Triplets  and  ringlets  and  stream 
lets  tinkle  about  on  top,  then  rush  downwards  to  embrace  the 
chords — a  very  tempestuoso  glorioso  of  sound.  He  stops 
once  or  twice  to  jot  down  a  note  on  a  score.  He  gets  up,  rubs 
his  stomach,  and  goes  to  some  unwashed  dishes  on  a  table, 
the  remains  of  afternoon  tea,  pokes  among  them  unsuccessfully 
and  then  returns  dolefully  to  the  piano,  first  lighting  a  cigarette. 
GLADYS  appears  suddenly  through  the  curtained  doorway, 
back,  and  poses  against  the  portieres.'  She  is  tall  and  dark 
and  angular  and  sinister,  with  a  certain  BEAUTE  DE  DIABLE. 
She  is  very  smart  and  very  decollete,  and  she  smokes  a  long, 
thin  Italian  cigart  HUGH  looks  up  and  sees  her,  and  weaves 
into  his  theme  passionate  welcome.  She  smiles  crookedly  at 
him. 

HUGH. 

My  Beloved!    [He  reaches  out  one  hand,  which  she  takes, 
leaning  towards  him.] 

GLADYS. 
You  call  thr-t — music? 


96  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

HUGH. 
Yes,  I  call  that  music.    Don't  you? 

GLADYS. 

Would  you  mind  telling  me  how  much  longer  you  expect  to 
keep  it  up? 

HUGH. 

Until  I  get  this  idea  down  on  paper.  Sorry  you  don't  like  it. 
It's  my  piano!  [Bangs  louder,  then  catches  sight  of  her  cigar.] 
Throw  that  disgusting  thing  away! 

GLADYS. 
All  right. 
[She  does  so,  then  takes  his  cigarette  from  his  mouth  and  puts  it 

in  her  own.] 
Ow  wow!    What  a  noise!     [Prinks  before  gtass.]    My  ears! 

HUGH. 

[Playing  softly  and  beguilingly,  and  half  chanting  the  question.] 
When  do  I  get  something  to  eat? 

GLADYS. 

[Strolling  around  and  stretching,  dropping  wrap  on  the  floor.] 
I  dunno.    I've  had  my  supper. 
[Fearful  discords  on  piano.] 

HUGH. 

[To  the  accompaniment  of  chords  of  jealous  gloom.] 
You  have?    With  whom? 


TEMPERAMENT  97 

GLADYS. 

Jim  took  me  to  the  Ritz  after  the  show.  What  did  you  wait 
for?  Guess  you  can  scare  up  something  somewhere  if  you  try. 
Isn't  there  some  chocolate-cake  over  there? 

[She  points  to  the  tea-tray.    HUGH  goes  on  playing— motif- 
temper  and  hunger.] 

HUGH. 

Chocolate-cake!    Ye  gods! 

[Jealous-temper  motif.    GLADYS  unwinds  herself  luxuriously 
onto  the  couch.] 

GLADYS. 
Say,  Hughie! 

HUGH. 
Yes? 
[Basso  prof  undo.} 

GLADYS. 
Did  Old  Grump  take  the  Sonata? 

HUGH. 
No. 

[Anger  motif] 

GLADYS. 

Thought  not.  It's  rot  that  sonata!  Little  Hughie  '11  have 
to  try  again. 

[Piano  motif  of  temper  and  hunger  plus  wailing  disappoint 
ment.] 


98  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

HUGH. 

Woman!    I'd  like  you  to  get  me  some  supper,  and  get  it 
P.  D.  Q. 

[Masterful  chord  accompaniment  on  piano.] 

GLADYS. 

[Getting  herself  to  sitting  posture  with  astonishment.] 
Me!    Why? 

HUGH. 
Why?    Because  I'm  hungry,  that's  why — 

GLADYS. 

[Cooingly.] 
How  funny!    Hughie!    Has  the  Oriental  gone  to  bed? 


HUGH. 

Probably — at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning! 
[Piano  begins  to  wail.] 

GLADYS. 

No!  Is  it?  And  I've  got  to  learn  that  part  for  eleven- 
o'clock  rehearsal  tomorrow  morning.  Golly!  Where  'd  I  put 
it,  anyhow?  [Searches  about,  making  the  general  untidiness 
worse.  Finds  MS.  and  curls  herself  up  like  a  cat  to  study.  Hunger 
motif  rises  again  on  piano.]  Shut  up,  will  you? 


TEMPERAMENT  99 

HUGH. 

[Playing  more  softly  and  looking  up  at  her  once  or  twice,  opening 
his  mouth  as  if  to  speak,  then  playing  again,  finally  ending 
with  a  bang.] 

Why  in  thunder  don't  you  get  me  my  supper? 
[Seeing  she  isn't  listening,  he  gets  up  and  crosses  to  her.    She 
glances  up  vaguely,  but  hardly  hears,  as  she  is  absorbed  in  learning 
her  lines.]    Please  pay  attention  to  me!    Your  little  Hughie! 
Please! 

GLADYS. 

Oh  Hugh,  this  is  a  lovely  part!  I'll  be  great  in  it—  listen— 
[Recites,  then  stumbles,  then  goes  on  mumbling  the  lines.  HUGH 
takes  the  MS.  out  of  her  hands  and  casts  it  aside  —  then  proceeds 
to  make  love  to  her.] 

HUGH. 

Oh  come  on  now,  be  a  good  fellow.  There's  a  duck!  Get  me 
something  to  eat.  You  know  how  I  love  you.  Please!  [He  lays 
himself  down  by  the  low  couch  and  puts  his  head  in  her  lap,  closes 
his  eyes  with  a  rapt  smile,  murmuring  "Beloved."  GLADYS  twirls 
his  hair  in  her  fingers  gracefully.  He  catches  and  kisses  her  fingers. 
Then,  seeing  his  &yes  are  closed,  she  craftily  reaches  for  her  lines, 
while  she  continues  petting  him  absent-mindedly  with  the  free  hand.] 

GLADYS. 


HUGH. 

[With  his  eyes  closed.] 

Gladys,  I'm  very  happy,  very,  very  happy,  but  oh  I'm  so 
hungry!  Don't  let  my  love  die  of  starvation.  Don't!  Won't 
you  please  get  me  some  supper? 


100  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

GLADYS. 

In  a  minute!  In  a  minute!  This  is  so  puzzling.  [Goes  on 
murmuring  lines  and  gesticulating.  Finally  she  pats  him  so 
vaguely  that  she  is  patting  his  nose.] 

HUGH. 

[Opening  his  eyes.] 
Good  God — what  are  you  doing? 

GLADYS. 
Learning  my  part.     I  have  to,  don't  I? 

HUGH. 

Learning  your  part!  Ye  gods!  She's  learning  her  part 
while  I  starve!  Oh  I'm  so  hungry!  Hungry  for  love — hungry 
for  my  supper! 

[He  dashes  to  the  piano  and  plays  starvation  motif.  Then 
there  steals  in  the  motif  of  passionate  pain,  begging,  pleading, 
imploring.  A  wild  medley  follows,  crescendo  furioso. 
After  a  feiv  ineffectual  efforts  to  make  him  stop  GLADYS 
puts  down  her  MS.  and  listens  judicially.  Finally  the 
music  stops  in  some  Dubussy  chords.  One  seems  to  expect 
it  to  glide  into  another  movement,  but  it  doesn't.] 

GLADYS. 

[Regarding  him  with  her  head  cocked  and  the  cigarette  bobbing 

from  her  lips.] 

Hughie!  That  hunger  motif  is  perfectly  great — it's  one  of 
the  best  things  you  do! 


TEMPERAMENT  l6i 

[From  now  on  the  relative  action  takes  place  in  the  same  part 
of  the  stage  as  in  preceding  scene.] 

HUGH. 

[Leaving  the  piano.] 

That's  right!  Make  fun  of  my  Art!  Do  you  know  what's 
the  reason  I  can't  play  better,  the  reason  Old  Grump  won't 
publish  my  stuff?  Do  you?  Do  you?  [GLADYS  makes  a  queer 
little  face  at  him.]  Well,  I'll  tell  you  the  reason.  It's  you.  Do 
you  hear?  It's  you!  You  make  me  so  damned  uncomfortable 
I  never  get  a  chance  to  write  decent  music.  It's  all  like  that! 
I'm  always  hungry,  I'm  always  cold,  I  never  can  find  my  clothes. 
When  I  want  to  be  loved,  when  I  need  love,  you  go  and  study 
your  part  behind  my  back!  I  tell  you  it's  killing  me,  just 
killing  me! 

GLADYS. 
Are  you  serious? 

HUGH. 

Perfectly  serious.  My  music  is  rotten — do  you  hear? — 
rotten!  It's  all  alike — there's  no  contrast.  If  you  knew  any 
thing  about  music  you'd  know  you  have  to  have  different 
movements  to  make  up  a  symphony,  different  moods.  The 
calm  of  a  sunset  at  sea — the  stress  of  a  great  wind — dash  of  the 
waves  against  the  rocks,  then  peace  again — a  shepherd's  pipe 
in  the  gloaming —  Well,  when  do  I  get  a  chance  to  compose  a 
pastoral  in  this  joint?  It's  nothing  but  rows  and  nasty  cold 
meals  and  hurly-burly  and  chocolate-cake!  I  don't  get  sleep 
enough — my  digestion  is  ruined — my  socks  have  holes  in  them, 
bad  holes —  [He  kicks  off  his  slippers  and  displays  two  toes  bare.] 


PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

GLADYS. 
But,  Hughie,  you  have  me,  think  of  that! 


HUGH. 

Yes,  I  know  I  have  you,  and  I'm  not  likely  to  forget  it! 
As  a  first  aid  to  a  budding  composer,  you're  a  regular  scream! 
My  soul  is  starving,  I  tell  you,  starving,  and  it's  killing  me, 
killing  me!  [He  slumps  gloomily  onto  the  piano-stool] 

GLADYS. 

[Rising  majestically.] 

And  what  about  me?  I'd  like  to  know  where  I  get  off?  What 
about  my  soul?    A  swell  chance  I've  got  to  study  my  parts 
with  you  banging  that  piano  from  morning  till  night!     What 
do  you  take  me  for,  anyhow?    A  nice  little  Dickie-bird  that's 
got  nothing  to  think  about  but  your  supper  and  your  socks? 
I've  got  my  Art  to  think  about— haven't  I?    Why,  five  minutes 
ago,  when  you  knew  I  just  had  to  learn  that  part,  you  sat  there 
and  banged  on  the  piano  on  purpose  and  then  you  came  and 
dumped  yourself  down  there!    Who  was  uncomfortable  then, 
I'd  like  to  know?    And  all  you  talked  about  was  food!    You're 
always  thinking  about  food,  always  complaining  there  isn't  any. 
Talking   about   your  stomach  when   I'm   learning  my  lines, 
my  great   lines!     You're  so  unromantic— Hugh—    You  are 

11      •  ^ 

really! 

[HUGH  looks  startled.  She  has  worked  herself  up  to  quite 
a  temper  and  now  paces  the  room  like  an  enraged 
panther.] 


TEMPERAMENT  103 

HUGH. 

[After  watching  her.] 

I  see,  I  see  it  all.    I've  made  a  terrible  mistake.    We  are  both 
IT,  don't  you  see,  and  it  won't  work.    It  will  never  work! 

GLADYS. 
What  do  you  mean,  Hugh? 

HUGH. 

[Folds  up  his  music,  putting  the  scattered  sheets  in  a  neat  pile, 
arranges  his  hair  and  tie,  then  clasps  his  hands  over  his 
stomach.] 

Gladys,  we  must  separate. 

GLADYS. 
Good  Lord! 

HUGH. 

I  don't  want  to  spoil  your  career.    I'm  going  home  to  Anna- 
belle. 

GLADYS. 

[Making  a  panther  spring.] 
Never!    You're  mine! 

HUGH. 

[Disengaging  her  hands.] 
I  see  that  I've  done  you  a  great  wrong.    I  always  intended 


104  PLAYS  FOR  SMALL  STAGES 

to  do  the  right  thing  by  your  Art,  and  I  am  going  to  do  it  now. 
[A  puzzled,  frightened  look  comes  into  his  face  as  he  speaks.] 

GLADYS. 

[Clinging  to  him.] 

Hughie,  you're  crazy.  I  don't  want  you  to  go  home  to  Anna- 
belle.  I  never  supposed  you'd  go  off  half-cock  like  this.  I 
don't  want  you  to  go.  I  just  want  you  to — to  stop  talking  about 
food  while  I'm  studying  my  parts.  It's  a  beautiful  play,  Hugh. 
I  die  in  the  last  act  and  I  say  such  lovely  things!  You've  no 
idea  what  lovely  things,  and  then  you  interrupt  me  talking 
about  supper  when  there's  plenty  of  chocolate-cake  right  there! 
If  you'd  just  be  a  little  more  romantic,  Hugh.  Don't  you  see 
what  I  mean? 

[HUGH  looks  still  more  frightened  and  puzzled.    He  clutches  his 
forehead.] 

HUGH. 

[Gathering  himself  together.] 

Now,  Gladys,  listen.  Let  us  have  a  clear  understanding. 
You  know  I'd  do  anything  in  the  world  for  you,  but  if  I  stopped 
playing  the  piano  while  you  learned  your  parts,  and  while  you 
slept,  which  is  all  morning  long,  why,  there'd  never  be  any  time 
to  play  at  all.  Do  be  reasonable.  Don't  you  see  what  I  mean? 
[At  his  own  last  words  the  frightened  look  comes  into  his  face  again.] 

GLADYS. 

[Who  has  stalked  up  stage  and  folded  her  arms  while  he  has  been 

speaking.] 
Yes,  I  do  see,  and  what  I  see  is  that  you  have  no  imagination. 


TEMPERAMENT  105 

You  had  better  go  home  to  Annabelle.    We  are  not  mates. 
Good-bye. 

[HUGH  makes  a  wild  clutch  at  his  head  with  both  hands  and 
flees,  presumably  to  ANNABELLE.  GLADYS  stands  with  her 
mouth  open  as  the  curtain  falls.] 


CURTAIN. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


LD  21-100m-9/48(B399sl6)476 


, 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRA1 


